Thursday morning, January 12,2023
"The way Swann, his whole life, loved
Odette, and she not even his type, is the way
contrarily, we, each of us, love... Our lives."
—William Bronk, "Your Way Too"
Thanks for writing again. I'm not
going to write you back—there's too much
to say that has nothing to do with you.
But thanks for writing anyway. We
communicated well once. (I loved you,
remember?) But you're not my type—
I keep looking for you, but you live
so far away emotionally, nowhere
near, in a faraway country, where
I know neither the language, customs
nor rituals of courtship. You're so much
a part and then not, the then-not all
I got, the not-real you—what you fear—
and it's so hard to deal with this other
you though you pretended to misunderstand
me when I finally got your attention. People
aren't ideas and memories; they're flesh
and blood and spit and betrayal. I don't
blame you for going your way, Odette's
way perhaps, for not even considering me,
and I don't know what I would do if our
situations were reversed, and you loved
me, but I wouldn't tell my head to dictate
to my heart, and if that's a mistake then
so be it. I would rather make mistakes
with my heart than with your head. But
that's just me, my way, Swann's way.
Last night, when I was sleeping, you
grabbed my hand as I walked past you
in that crowded exit way we both know
so well. I could feel your touch, you holding
on, the texture of you skin warm against
mine for maybe the last time. And I didn't
look back, no, though, in truth, I wanted to.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem