Laura,
Listen to me. This thing I never had. If only I could follow that 80s Athens, Georgia scene. If only; I could have the thing I never had.
I would wear smoke eyeshadow and wear dresses outloud. And they would want me now.
And we would listen to Of Montreal.
Let’s have bizarre celebrations
Let’s pretend we don’t exist
Let’s pretend we’re in Antartica
And I would cultivate a sultry stance. Dancing all the while.
Miss you–
Marlene
ahora
en esta hora inocente
yo y la que fui nos sentamos
en el umbral de mi mirada
– alejandra pizarnik, 11
Laura,
Cuando lo conocí era otra. Había leido mis pensamientos. Y intentaba mostrarme que se interesaba por mi. Me envió flores. Trasladó, palabra por lenta palabra, un cuento entero de aquel cubano, para que lo leyera en sus páginas. Me hablaba de Borges, de Cervantes. Quiso que me diera cuenta de que le gustaba. Y yo le creí.
Pero que ingenua era. O acaso fue verdad. Al fin de cuentas, puede que eso ya no importe. Eso ya pasó. Ahora queda, a esta confudida edad, recuperar lo que nunca fuí.
¿Qué deprimente verdad?
Un beso,
Marlene
Dear Laura,
“My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad.
Stay with me.
Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
I never know what you are thinking. Think.”
I stole this from the Wasteland.
But I mean it. My nerves are bad tonight. I found the new Peter Wolf Crier album. I drank and listened to it. I thought of him. I always think of him.
Oh how I wish you were here. One day he will inspire me to write a poem, yes?
Miss you. And miss him more than the world.
Marlene
