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HOME 2008-08-13
Nelson Riddle B. 6.1.1921 Oradell, New Jersey / D. 10.6.1985 Los Angeles Liver Ailments Are we still dating? I wish I knew, but since we’re not communicating day to day I don’t. It’s queer. Are we still dating? I must confess, if it were up to me we would be copulating in “our” way but it is not—this much is clear.
You do not call. You do not write. I am alone another night. I wish I knew a better cure for blue than you.
Are you still internally debating? I’d hate to interrupt in case it’s my side advocating for its say before the judge and jury of its peer. What are you incubating? Something scarier than silence, I’m anticipating: we shall see if ever you’re no longer neither there nor here.
You do not call. You do not write. I am alone another night. Oh woe is me a tragedy: Too free.
Are we still dating? If not I can’t imagine why you’re hesitating: “Go away.” I hear you say it when you don’t appear. Does it need stating? I’m very sorry that I made us lose our PG13 rating: two can play but I forgot that only one should steer.
You do not call. You do not write. I liked you so you really might. “For you I pine and balsam too.” It’s true.
Are we still dating? This afternoon I thought of emigrating. I thought you hated waiting— or maybe that was only me projected onto you—I’m hating your delay in any case—oh, not hate but fear. I find this enervating. My face feels full of little after-happy smiles deflating; with a sigh each smile subsides and waits to be a tear.
You do not call. You do not write. I liked you so you really might. A word or two would really do: As in “Adieu.” Consolation Site: For Sinatra 1954 / For Rags & James
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