do I love you so and regret my winter evenings spent alone in Calcutta as the smog rolls across the river and churns up old sorrows best forgotten and drowned in the cream being whiplashed and the coffee being stirred among the familiarity of snug old ghosts and darkness? Why do I love you so and miss my beats as I strip you naked in my dreams and ravish the wonderment of your soul like grapefruit punch? Why do I always blow my lines when I write to you, my youth galore, my sadness wine, my fairness cream, my winter anew?