Back among the books I keep locked up behind doors of oak and glass, way back, I keep the name Christina etched upon a page I keep so smartly creased its folds embrace the page to keep the name Christina locked upon, within my heart so tightly bound but free to roll the name Christina upon my lips into my thoughts to wake then sleep and dream the name Christina, Christina, but for Christina would these doors remain locked and this glass unshattered but now unable to keep this name Christina locked away to shout it shout it again this name, this Woman, this Christina.
I’ve been writing these little ditties, verses, near-poems since high school. Many are pedestrian; others are real stinkers. Some I still love. I worry that they’ll expire with the inevitable demise of my hard drive, so I decided I’ll put them out here, in the harsh, blistering, stinging, way-too-public cloud to live forever, for good or shame. (To write and self-publish is to court shame. Oh, the hubris!)
I wrote this one back in 1997 in St Louis, and it wasn’t planned for Christina. (Yes, she is real.) I was saving it for someone – The One, but Christina showed up instead. I have no idea where she is today.