Dear Randall Rufus, it began with your name, and spiraled down the last dance of our freshman year and you were not a Roman God, but I liked it when you called me Venus toga toga toga.
Dear Stefan Saint Somethingski, I could never have lived in a country as beautiful as you and all your cashmere accents I still wonder where you are hiding your crown and family jewels.
Dear Rollo Roysterer, I remain unconvinced that that Rollo is your real name, but small lies in the service of laughter is a calling, you snakecharmer of my laughter pants pee.
Dear Franklin Forefather, you were too old for me. You were too old for yourself. You were too old for your mother when you were born. You were too old for Moses. But you were just the right age for waltzing.
Dear Terrence Terrible, you were trying to be two. You were too temperamental to long-term tolerate, but not too tangled to short-term tango.
Dear Curt Calculator, I never added up, did I? All those calculations and projections. Your silk-tied fellows called me an underperformer, but you ran my numbers again. And again.
Dear Fred Fickledom, we never decided if we really wanted something or not, did we? Or didn’t we? I was going, you were coming or was it the other way around. Two off-course ships that missed in the night.
The there’s Who. Dear Who, my forever who. Who?
– Copyright Kay Winter