Clearly, we’d gotten our wires crossed about what constitutes a pledged relationship. In my mind, chained connections, through cell towers and laptops, and then coffee dates and TV parties behind my back were ropes to form a noose. When I attempted to talk about the talking, in order to strengthen the cord between us, you’d refused and instead packed your silver Honda and left, hung up your end when I called. Oh, telephone, tin-cup, how I tried!
Her efforts in cabling me in her tangle have been great and how to tell the generals of population that I’d first experienced the two of you in a dream, you roped in her blonde braids and me doing my best to cut you apart with a pair of heavy duty scissors I’d ham-handed in the nightmare. When I’d asked after waking, you had confirmed, and so I knew, yes, my wires now passed across hers and yours a three of swords in modern day transmissions laid upon rare-earth metals.
Her continued postings and emails to public officials have contained my name and details in thick, dark lead and on Monday, a year after the wiggle between you, I felt a sudden sadness and lethargy wash over me—wondered, what could be going on? I sat down and wrote a three page letter addressed to her thinking it might help to send my own voice out into the universe, that I would not push send, but in just the writing, on a psychic wire, I’d be able to straighten some kink.
