Two people told me I could make you into a play. Smart people, too. But I can’t. To write a play, first, I would have to be inspired. That part is easy. I would take out a picture of you. I would put it on the desk. There’s one in particular I like. Your hair is almost red, and your mouth is opened and smiling, almost a smile of a wink, and your eyes look tired and beautiful. Your eyebrows are raised slightly, your tongue is even on the palette, and your little canine is crooked, too. Your nose is a big perfect triangle, and graced by the single lines that run down to your mouth. Your earrings are silver and they dangle long to the base of your shoulders which are strong and white. The weight of the earrings pull your ear lobes gently and give them a slight accent. Did I mention your perfect neck? There is no way to tell from the photograph (it is slightly overexposed) that your neck is perfect and the part of you that is so soft that you need to touch it, absolutely must touch it. If you know that in advance, it is easy, but you have to have something more than the photo. That’s the problem. It’s impossible for this photo to see this, or to say how beautifully you kissed.
I can’t write a play about you. The inspiration is easy. But I don’t want a play about you. I want to play with you. But you fell down and broke. And when you broke, it was impossible to play. They say you can’t play with broke, and you can’t. It’s impossible to even say. You can’t write this play. This play has nothing to say. This play must go away. There will be none of this play. Come back, please. Please, come back. Let’s play.
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