1/03/2007 01:51:00 AM - Presents

I bought you pens, but you forgot to write. All I thought of when I was buying them was how many letters I'd be opening, all by your glorious hand. Letters of passion, thought I, letters from the heart. Yet for all these months, not one letter has found my door, not one writing has delighted my eyes.
I bought you a dozen roses, but you never bothered with a vase. You snatched them from my hand with a thank you that was more feeble than my smile, and quieter than the wind whistling outside your window, fluttering the curtains and fluttering my fragile soul in agony with them; you placed them on the dusty wooden table where they lay and aged and rotted and blew away.
I bought you a camera, imagining the photographs, the memories, the beauty of you captured, encapsulated, and hung in frames all over my room, and--more importantly--thoroughly through my mind. But the photographs never came and and the photographer never became. And the camera rusted near the flowers and was dirtied by the dust which they'd become over time.
I bought you an ice cream cone in hopes of having you actually look at me, for once. Vanilla and chocolate, your favorite, remember? I remember. I had to eat the cherry on top, because you're not too fond of them. Not the artificial ones, anyways. Yet the ice cream was unfinished and melted with my hopes of having your eyes meet mine.
I bought you all these things in hopes of getting from you some things that can't be purchased in return: a careless smile, a laugh without restraint. All I wanted were some emotions... enthusiasm, passion, regard--love, respect. All these emotions I gave you freely with my gifts, but until now, I've gotten nothing back.

Adonis

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