Dear Mr. Tom Pickens,

In your last letter you asked me to describe her.

I’ve been trying to think of analogy that is fitting,
unsuccessful to this point,
perhaps it will come to me in my writing to you.

Her hare lip (which causes her to lisp) is her most attractive quality:
When she opens her mouth to tell me about her hunt for string
it’s like her words are a white bloom tinged with red streaks,
vibrant, but floating and hovering in the air, just out of reach.

Her eyes hold much of her passion, hot and cold:
Emotions storm her brow. Reflecting in her eyes,
like a freeway highlighted by street lamps on a rainy evening.
We can only hold on, always hoping we won’t skid out of control.

Her frame, though not overly petite, could not be called plump:
To be honest, it is her hips sliding into an oversized bottom
that makes me hold my breath. When she is walking away
I am quite literally held in a hypnotic state, boom-chick-a-boom-boom!

Her hobbies consist of writing, daydreaming, searching for string, and me.

Alas, Tom, I fear I am not giving you a very apt description,
displeasing, as I wish I could fully express my high regard
and total devotion to her.

When you meet her, mayhap you’ll understand how traitorous this letter really is.

We will ring you around seven in a fortnight...please extend our ‘Hello’s’
to your dear wife.

Sincerely,

Tracy Gaffney