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She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
—William Wordsworth
It just occurred to me that you might actually hate poetry altogether? And if that is the case, I am very much screwed. For if I do not have the right words, and the greats do not have the right words, whatever am I to say to get your attention?
GM
––––––––
I laughed. I didn’t mean to, but I did. Without even realizing it, I began to message Gale back then froze. What was I doing?
What was he doing?
Honestly, he couldn’t plan on writing to me every day, could he?
Even if I did not reply?
NOVEMBER 5
Dear Odette,
I must admit a small part of me hoped you would have called, written a letter, or sent a carrier pigeon if all else failed—however, no matter. I will not let this discourage me. Your city, Seattle, is very damp. It reminds me a lot of England. But it has its own charms. The people most especially. I find myself entertained just watching people here. Never mind me, though, how has your week been?
How do you move and breathe through this world?
What are you seeing?
What are you hearing?
GM
––––––––
I wondered where the poetry went this time. Did he think I disliked it? I bit my lip, not sure what to say back, especially after not answering. Taking my phone, I recorded the sound of my guitarist and sent it to him as a message.
She speaks...well, sort of. However, I shall take it! He texted back.
I laughed.
“Odette?” One of the guys called out to me from the stage.
