Dear Monty’s,
This is not about you, not exactly. I think, perhaps, we are going in different directions. I suppose I can say I’ve loved being inside you. But the other day, after I left, an hour or two later, when the night was no longer a metaphor, and my drink had worn off, or I’d worn it off, and the frogs were all sitting together in the field inflating and deflating their air sacs, and the stars were turning the redwoods blue, it all seemed really clear. Any vagueness about you was labor I was doing, and it fell to your ankles with silky ease and what was left was just a cabin-shaped bar with literal pickup trucks lined up outside you, all the way down the road like crumbs. And me? A slow sleuth, lifting them one by one, examining each. Not too fast! I heard myself warn, as if I might miss the evidence by seeing it too directly. You had me drunk on a certain obliqueness. Which is only a fault of my own imagination, or my going to you, and sitting down, and drinking. I was the one who had wrapped you up in some fantasy, seduced by your 365-day a year Christmas lights, thinking it was a holiday we both celebrated.
Yours,
A.