This is all yours, Crystal Jones, from Paul Whetstone, who loves you a thousand times more than God Almighty and all her angels. I am indeed transfixed, what the inmates used to call a natural life sentence. I am overwhelmed with you. I told you that you can never say you weren't loved completely by a man who would have probably married you in your Church, your dress a pretty pale beige with matching satin shoes to be worn only once, but simple, still not knowing anything at all about your mysterious, taciturn and aloof way. I will love you always, Miss Jones. But, the fact that I can endure this powerful musical session while absorbing your haunting visage means I've begun drifting away from you, honey. I'm so sorry. I've never experienced anything like this in my life. Should the poets take note, it was to doomed fail, almost Shakesperian, but the resulting implosion inside of me will have to stand for something totally worthwhile and beautifully good. I just don't know what form that will take. I just cannot believe this has happened to me. A friend of mine once beat me almost to death, but this is the most powerful force I've ever encountered bearing in mind that I have also suffered a broken neck, serial expulsions, jail, drugs of every kind, alcohol, and an overdose, and the darkest depression imaginable. The night of the dark soul, they say. I tried to die myself out it and, true to nature, fucked even that up. My chest fills full with you, honey. "Paul, honey, you're not in love with me." Remember when you said that? Where will all this go, I wonder. I can feel you inside of my body at times, like right now. You have violenty shaken my little internal snow globe. See, you reached down into the briar thickets of your own damage and bloodied your strong hands to summon a mouth kiss, just for me. The most memorable of all. I'm hit! Struck by lightning. In italian, the thunderbolt. In song, What We See, by the Grandbrothers, the Revolutionary Road soundtrack by Thomas Newman, Yann Tierson, haunting tales told only by the instrumentals, the intra-facial tear pushers, the back of your legs behind your knees walking down the isle, trying on new boots I bought for you, At first I thanked God Almighty that I was having trouble remembering your lovely face, but I can recall perfectly again. I'm looking at the image, it scoops something out of my solar plexus and feeds it back to me, I saw the tiny sweat beads on your shoulder and thought I licked them off, and your hair pulled up on your head, and your silent company, Now left with the spell you cast on me, how I so hope that the bailiff won't be able to tell that I've been crying all morning, at the sounding of the docket. Allergies I'll say. All the sudden I find myself I'm mourning the day that I might not love you anymore. My limenence, my limping ego, my pity for the circumstantial periphery of your life and times, The life and times of Crystal Jones. I'll write a letter to you one day after I have proven that I'm never coming back from this. "Paul, honey, you're not really in love with me." You've since learned different. That weird vestibule one enters when Thomas Newman plays his music. My choppy breath breathing in and out. Verklempt, sometimes seems like all the time while spending time with my lovely girl. Your pain, once managed by you with the help of copius introductions of hard narcotics, no doubt, is now my pain, too. You didn't even mean to share it over lunch. Maybe you did. While I absorbed the entirety of your history, I shared my french toast with you, and you shared the unimaginable pain of lost children with me. This makes me howl like wounded heartbroken animals at six a.m. You'd be happy that my heartbreak did not trigger my depression. I think that you might care enough about me to be happy about that, honey. You called me honey that time. "Paul, honey, you're not in love with me." I called you "dry, which got your attention." More like once full and now not. Is it time to write the letter. Probably not. Not yet. When will it be "yet," not yet. Writing this is the most wayward thing I can do at this moment. In truth, it writes itself. My barber gave me a LGTBQ bracelet because I support the margins, where you, too, have lived your life. People know that about me. Playing the soundtrack for Amelie and Cryin' like fuck in the early mornings and the late evenings keeps you close to me, Crystal Jones. I'll never shake you, honey. Don't want to. I've learned that the kind of cryin' you evoke is like some kind of weird narcotic that is totally good for the new addict. "True in language strange I said, I love thee true."
I know of no other tightly-arranged organic composite on planet Earth that is so utterly beautiful and utilitarian. A perfect blend of the arts and science, courtesy of the Universe.
