Dear Mr. Two Weeks
it took me over 90 days to write about you.
you told me to climb onto your back; I did. We flew- ascending into heaven in the mornings to witness the dawn, and in the evenings to behold the flight of the moon. though we’d never flown before, there was never any doubt about the heights we could endure. and when you were lopsided, when you were falling under the weight of us both, I blew air into you, into us, so that we could remind aflight.
I was jettisoned.
when we departed, my heart developed chasms. you electrified, awakened my quasi-dormant soul, like a veritable parade of phantasms.
because we’d connected on a super-human plane; a climax of the spiritual and physical- over and beyond the constraints of mere physical orgasms.
You left- no doubt, to journey to the bowels of the earth.
but I am-
not lost.
not afraid.
not forgotten.
I’ve ascended to heaven on my own, and oversee the plight of your folly. I did not bow under the frenzied pressure precipitated by your unceremonious exodus. You have cultivated your own mission- to rescue the most foolish, the most irrational, the most basal and banal of the female sex. My pity for you is soulless; there, you will find no solace.
and I am-
awake.
arisen.
aflight again.
Undefeated.
I am healing, coming together, and this Sen will be the best Sen. Men, beware-
