Image © Copyright Amy Charles Media 2014

23 May 2015

An Open Letter to Naomi Watts

For love alone I would end it all, averting every duty.
Flirting with you hopelessly can only last so long.
Let this only be the matinee performance of our lives,
before we sail the wide Sargasso Sea, long before the final curtain.
Is it really gross misconduct to wish that you were the custodian?
Spending days off dressed as Tank Girl, or Mia Wallace;
watching 'Children of the Corn' parts I to IV, and never going outside.
Basking in the tranquillity of being persons unknown;
spending the evenings under the lighthouse dancing, and away from a house divided.
Your dangerous beauty helps me find solace on this strange planet.
And they say, never date an actress. "Never date a girl like Ellie Parker; she'll only let you down."
But we don't need the dizzy heights of Mulholland Drive to be at it like rabbits.
And yeah, one day you'll want the ring, and I'll save up for some plots with a view,
and grow a beard like Ned Kelly, and strive to avoid Le Divorce
('cause love's worth more than 21 grams).
And it doesn't matter if we don't live here anymore,
and that most of my relationships resemble the assassination of Richard Nixon,
and that I had to ask you what your "I Heart Huckabees" t-shirt meant three times,
and that, when I begged you to stay, with all the grace of King Kong,
I first spotted cracks in the painted veil.
And you turned your nose up at a weekend in Great Yarmouth, and all my Eastern promises.
Even though, last time, we were trapped in the caravan,
and played funny games together to the soundtrack of the rain,
and you said it was one of the best holidays you'd ever had;
including the international ones.
And you can't see me in the same picture as mother and child.
And your fortune teller sold the idea that "you will meet a tall dark stranger."
Well in many ways, I'm still a stranger, and always will be; I think that's fair game?
And alright, I'll never be able to afford the dream house,
or be as renowned as J. Edgar Hoover,
or achieve what's perceived to be the impossible,
or agree to watch the Spice Girls Movie 43 weeks in a row
(even though I know you adore it, I grew sick after 9 or 10).
Let's just bask in our sunlight Jr. memories,
nostalgic bliss, before they took Diana;
flicking through my dad's old copies of 'Birdman And Chicken';
or his articles on the rise and fall of the HMS St. Vincent.
Life's too short, so let's live it while we're young.
Let's not agonise over the divergent series of hopes and aspirations
that reside beneath our humble roof,
for fear of going blind before the sea of trees that sprout obstacles before us.
Let this not be a demolition.
Let's just shut in, relax, enjoy whatever we can,
and await the next title on your Wikipedia filmography.

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