it is winter and i am cold

i miss my sweater

the gray sweater that i left behind

in becky's house   gray

and cabled    heavy and loose

now she has it

i've written of it   the sweater

the loss of it

and becky   does she wear it

if so   for the warmth

for the memory   oh bosh   no

one cares   yet

it is winter and i am cold

i miss my sweater

~

i miss the sunlight 

coming through the window

the low winter sun

casting a parallelogram on the carpet

on cold saturdays

i sat in the light   clutching

the weak warmth

unable to stand the cold even a little   

roving

as the sun rove east to west

following the warmth

but the days were short and i felt it

i am chilled to the bone

sans sweater   sans sunlight   (sans becky)

~

i make tea   tea for two   it is what i do

i make it for the warmth

i make it to celebrate our domestic tranquility

i make it for lack of options

short days weigh heavily   

not as heavily as my lost sweater   

but as a gloomy presence

i wait   as the tea steeps

for the sun to give it up completely

i despise this middle-light   

i want bright or i want black   the in-between

worsens the chill   and the spirit

no warming thoughts come to mind

or   do they

~

becky barefoot on the shore ice

becky slapping me hard across the face

becky laughing her absurd   'daaarling'   laugh

high drama from a drama queen

that warms me   how she made me squirm

relentless   that girl

that warms me   but she is gone

gone gone gone and gone

while i am well and truly

here here here and here   with my tea for two   

my domestic tranquility

with my shoulders hunched 

against the chill as i cast barbs at the darkening window

die light   die   (or   at the least    wane)

~

i feel better   no warmer   not really

but becky made me smile

from a distance in time and space   

i will honor her in my memory for the us of us

but i wish i had the sweater   

i left it in a haze of afterglow   i imagine   

tossed carelessly on a bedroom chair

one long-ago afternoon

who could have predicted the breakup 

the dissolution   the fini   

not me   

my incipient frostbite is no one's fault but mine

i will take the blame for that

i am used to it

~

is the image (of becky) becoming clear

i wonder

scandanavian ancestry   long   dark blonde hair   

cute bangs   

dazzling   merry   brown eyes

smile that begins with those eyes

deadly sense of humor

quick wit   razor wit   barbed wit

sweet kisses    bloody bites   

passionate   dramatic   acerbic

it must be coming clear

and then   unexpectedly   demur

even shy   even bashful

but not for long

~

it is the same as dark   i do feel better   if not warm

but warmer

she would agree   it wasn't love

it was fun

it was a play in five acts

in which

she scripted   directed   acted both parts

i mimed

what use was i to her

as lover

plain and simple

i fulfilled her scenarios   i could do that

and did

(in reality   it was rather tame   she was no shrew)

~

my tea has gone cold

sigh

becky strikes again

for the record   we ended as friends

of sorts

kept in touch for a while   we met once more

she brought her boyfriend   

boyfriend 

can you believe it

i was in a relationship as well

no boys 

then   once more   a phone call

a hint

too late

~

if the   three wish   concept

were more than a concept   would i choose   

as one of my wishes

a day with becky

and if so

which day (or night)

perhaps an afternoon   (i will compromise)

i come to her house

stand outside ringing her doorbell

knowing full well

she will not answer   that i will 

find the door unlocked

enter   climb the stairs

find her

~

in bed   we will wordlessly make love

it is one of her best scripts

and i will play it well   

as i did

end act iii   or was it act iv 

either way   

i would do it again   

though   

i remember so few details

a few moments which became iconic

she was difficult   poetic

naive in some ways   too trusting   yet to be stung

she played the game her way   

always

~

she played me   up to a point

if we were to count blocks   

i had been around more of them

hers were mostly imagined   

mine

they were real enough

a slap across the face ranks middling

ahh   no

i just hit me   i left out the biggest clue

she revered plath

there is no cure for that

and 

sure enough   

they sewed-up her wrist on cue

~

how could i forget that

that kills it

i was having a lark   

i had forgotten

she sent a cryptic letter

i could barely understand 

i did in time 

the drama of it   it was high drama   

and it was real   one long   

tough city block

no wonder she looked sober that day

with her boyfriend

truly

i forgot

~

she was usually such a blithe spirit  

such a betty davis

that she wanted to drain her veins

fit the plath-mode   

but who would have expected her

to actually do it

sigh

no amount of tea is going to fix this

it is black

as the ace of spades outside   i am cold

i have no sweater

now i have these images jitterbugging up my mind

the night looms

a cold   moonless night at that

~

i almost wrote   did she get over it   

of course not

maybe got past it   

but never over it   it doesn't work that way   

i can celebrate my sublime domesticity

with cups of tea

i can be blithe   i can go dancing

i have marketa

where is becky  

i think of predestination and free will

is she okay   

i am in a knot   i am undone   

either way

for want of a sweater 

~