Fine

 To the woman who remembers the little things,

I hope you're doing fine. 

I sat cross-legged on your bed and read

about how Kafka thinks wayfaring ghosts

drink up all the kisses contained within

the letters one writes to their lover.

I read about Vita and her great longing 

for the masterful Virginia, 

that went unrequited for the most part. 

If feelings were like tastes, I think

great suffering would be an acquired one.

If I were so inclined to describe you in two words,

I'd choose warmth, and I'd choose courage.

Do not ask me why I am so inclined, 

I might have to let my tears show you.

Within the comfort of your sheets, I found

Great longing and great suffering 

And everything in between. I cannot count

the number of times I have wanted to burst into tears

in your arms, for my frail body can only hold so much feeling.

And still you stand there, with my favourite ice cream each time

With my favourite chocolate, and my soon-to-be favourite books.

What have I to give you, except my sunburnt heart, bruised and cynical?

This poem does no justice to how I feel or who you are.

I hope you are doing fine.