Dear Punkus,
I know you agree with my friends who tell me I should have forgotten you years ago. But that has not happened, and I doubt that it ever will. I've decided to write you this one last letter asking your forgiveness. I will not bother you any longer with my pleas. Just know that some evenings will bring me bitter dreams while a cracked moon, half-eaten by envious eyes, lingers overhead. And certain harsh, summer winds will bend trees burdened with leafy cares as I sigh with them a bark-deep sorrow. You tell me you are happy now with another man, but he is not the one who found you alone and helpless, sunk in the mire of low self-esteem. It was I who mended your fractured, inner, hateful space and revived you with hopeful tomorrow-thoughts. I still remember our last day together (only I didn't know it would be our last!). We spent the night in a downtown Orlando bistro and didn't leave until morning closing time. In a rented room in a cheap hotel we talked about our future dreams--yours, a singing career (how could I forget the first time I heard you without a choir behind you! I was sitting in the balcony of a deserted church and you were on stage practicing solo, " O Holy Night"! Never have I heard it sung more hauntingly!)--and mine, ambitions to write a novel of the times! When morning came we went for breakfast coffee at an outside table that had a view of a park fountain. And then my world caved in! Some jealous man (or woman) later told you about an affair I was having at the time! "Unforgiveable," you wrote! I've spent the following years singing, with the sparrow, his forlorn song about fools and broken hearts! [Hark, he sings!]
