A letter after the wedding

Tell me, what do I call you now?
Now that the tides have turned,
Now that the autumn leaves are my hands,
kissing cobblestones.
Now that you are no longer what is dearest.

Believe that I have always meant to write to you.
In my head, I scribble you notes everyday. I say
that lunch was lovely or that
I feel I will be coming down with a cold soon.

Some days, I write you real letters. He
encourages me to do so. I start off with
mundane weather reports - sunny, cloudy,
indeterminate. Then I move on to furniture,
to the smoothness of freshly polished woodwork.
Sometimes, I write down words
describing my perfumed happiness, about how
cold the new tiles feel under
my feet during early mornings, about
the occasional car passing beneath the window,
about the sound of raindrops falling on the new roof,
which by the way,was painted red.
Red for distress, for the solitary
offering of blood.I also tell you that I am sorry
you missed it. The papers said it was the
wedding of the century- a wedding of tulle, angel cake,
of great promises of everlasting etc etc.

There are moments when I would like to write about him,
to tell you about the way his
arm curves along the rumpled sheets,
an anchor weighing down this
mattress where I drown. I do not do this. Instead, I inquire
about how you are, how you have been,
have you been seeing someone. I try
to see you objectively, like I would
patterns on doilies he asks me to pick out or
the twirling of the wet clothes
in the new laundry machine.

Then I realize that
you are lost to me, that we are no longer
time and tide, twin stars, related incidents. So I write down I miss you.
The words remove themselves from
the page and pounce on me, eating my poignancy, my collection
of polite inquiries, my careful secrecy. All is lost.

I sometimes would like to ask a picture from you. In it, you should
be near the sea, standing on the deck, alone and waiting as if
nothing has changed.
As if the tides have remained still.
As if it is not already autumn.
As if you are still what is dearest, what is true.

I kept my promise. I continue carrying this memory of
you. It is my valise chained to a ready flight. But I am fine. We are all
fine. He sends you his love.

Yours, for always.