This is not easy, not writing as a writer.
I hide from myself in words.
That’s how I spend hours writing letters that don’t quite say
I’m yours,
even if you just pretend,
but it’s there
between the lines,
and I convince myself this is love—
and that’s what I
pretend.

I lost Ava 6 months ago.
She died suddenly.
Until now,
I grieved for my dream of Ava,
and feel ashamed today because
she alone—
of all the women I’ve known—
never bought my show
for one minute.
She didn’t tell me that.
What she said, on our first date, blind date, was
“You’re not someone I would have chosen.”
Wow.
But she enjoyed me and our times—
movies and dinner, TV,
Plays,
La Quinta and the like—
but never the
dream.
“I don’t wake up thinking about you,” she said.
Wow.

I didn’t know
what I had in Ava.
If she had lived longer
she might have spent much of her life with me,
pleased when she was pleased
and immune to my charm, my wit, my enchanting neuroses
and my free-spending ways.
My will-to-accommodate
puzzled her.
She wasn’t a free spirit,
just a real one.
Maybe I didn’t like how she enjoyed doing anything or
nothing with me,
and maybe I wanted her to want more from me—
more than the guy who tried to dazzle her—
and not accept a Russell
I couldn’t,
and help me see who she saw
and had no problem with.

I didn’t know
how freeing it was
not having to be anything
for her,
So
she helped me
after all
and now I know
what I lost for real
and why it hurts
so much.