Dear Poetry,

I forgot what a haven you are.

My mother always said when she felt lost, she went to church. Even when she didn't really care for Christ, she felt at home in the hymns, in the strategy of it all.

I feel at home in the English language. And true, I've lost my way a bit. Let myself meander into lackluster vocabulary and drunken nights of less than philosophical topics. I don't know that I'm proud of myself, but we all go through phases, don't we?

Don't be sore at me, poetry. I just forgot what you looked like. You can understand how hard it is to find something you've forgotten.

Not that you're forgettable--goodness, I just keep digging this hole deeper and deeper, don't I?



Dear Poetry,

It's nice to meet you again. Could we take a walk and catch up?

Love, really,

Julie

P.S. It's nice to know you're still doing well. I'd love to meet your new friends and lovers. They seem like lovely people.

I was being a bit of a snob, I think? Snobs tend to be frightened people. Little prune people hiding in peanut shells like mice. Now there's something I'm not proud of.

But like I said, when I'm with you I feel like breathing again. And I think it's lovely that I've finally run into you again. I didn't realize what a heart-stopping relief it would be.

Question: can we still be lovers if we don't see each other all the time? I've done a lot of growing up, you see. I don't know if I'm the girl you said you used to love. But I'm still interesting. And damn it, I'm still worth knowing... I think.

Let's take a walk now, really. I have such a journey to discuss with you.