Jack, do you not love me any longer because you were my rain gutter? My ash tray, my catch-all. I’m asking because I still love you, Jack. And I promise that it isn’t just that I need you (but I do). I’ve tried everything. I went down to the bus stop many times where you had asked me to wait with an umbrella. But now the monsoon is over and my clothes are dry, yet I don’t see you coming around the hairpin turn. You can come around and go back again. You can go back again right away, Jack, but please come by again. I’ve never gotten on a bus and all the bus drivers ask me what it is that I’m waiting for, and I have to make up excuses like, “Oh, I’m waiting to get on Route 17, please go on without me.” I swear sometimes I can feel my joints snap and I collapse on the pavement and I never want anyone to stand me up again. I’ve grown brittle and weather-worn like delicate stationery left out in the sun — unused and left out on the windowsill to drain of all colour. Come write all over me, Jack. I am looseleaf, I am your weather girl. I am ready to be all the things that you were to me — a receptacle for your pencil shavings just waiting, waiting for you to bring words to my surface.
