Letters

Thick white smoke coils atop my coffee cup, like whisps of hot breath against snowfall, curling from lips and tongues in graceful disarray. It sits on the foam a while, then evanesces into the warmth of my room, never to be seen again. Such a quick life it lives. Short and meaningful, just like our love. I sit, perched high upon my throne in the library, emptying my brain of thoughts that seem to ramble on into the great abyss of forever and nothing. I think of you sometimes, in this, my quiet reverie. You were destined to cross my mind I think. Destined to slip into the cracks of my soul, flow into me somehow, like a babbling brook, forever singing in the back of my mind.





I sit at my royal desk, prepared to write you a letter that I can only hope you'll read. I pray you allow your sight to caress this thick, heavy, creamy parchment as only your eyes can. The words I scrawl mean nothing to the innocent passerbyer, but to you and I, words once meant everything. They pulled the silver orbs from the sky, roped and ripped from orbit. They made things flow, made them beautiful in a grotesque sort of way. They also caused great silence at times, words having been drained from our throats. Everything having been said, sometimes too soon.





I scribble and scramble to make this letter meaningful. To make it count. This is my one shot at connecting to you again. Yet, somehow, I feel that I already am connected to you.

Like Christmas lights strung together, we too, are strung together in life and beyond. The tips of your fingers, like the tip of your tongue, has left a blatant imprint upon my soul and body, both scarred and weary. You too were scarred and weary. Worn from too much. Too many nights of innocent rendevouz. Too many glasses of whiskey followed innocently by a smooth, white cigarette that burned down too quickly. Too many nights of scorching hot passion that ensued after our wagging tongues sparked and became roaring fires of red-hot anger that we spat at one another in the dark.


Yes we both have lived through far too much, and when the great blackness of eternal sleep creeps stealthily upon us and woo's us just a little too well, and we give into it, we both wake the next morning to find it just like a lover that's slipped out of our grasp in the night. Gone. Thus, we pick up and move on, waiting for the next calloused moment that drips with the delight of freedom from this life to come along and woo us yet again. We spend hours, minutes, months, days, weeks writing about it. Obsessing about it. Daydreaming about it. We fill our days with wicked poetry and dark music, thick and rich with suicide. Yes, we are the muses of death and destruction. We are infected and infect others with our sweet disease. We bring the masses to the edge of our favorite abyss that leads into nothingness. Pure, golden nothingness.




I swallow the last of my creamy coffee and mail the letter, knowing now that you will read it, and call me because this is what we do. We wrap around one another like fancy, heavy ribbon wraps around colored packages at Christmastime. We are all alike and as I said before, strung together somehow. I return to the mess of my library and wait for your call.

Winter Suicide Part 1

Dawn -
The thick, lead-heavy bones in my legs are
shaking. I am running at breakneck speed
to the end of this maze. Ivory flesh melts
into the background of twisted black trees
and the pale glittery diamonds that have
fallen upon them.


I seek a knowledge that sits at the back of my throat like vomit.


I am dreaming, yes, that must be it. I am
simply dreaming. This white cotton dress
belongs on the frail body of one who is at home,
long gone into the world of dreams and subconscious
realities. My skin, stretched taut from the cold, is
not really turning blue. These boots, these black
little boots are really snug in the foyer of my home.
I am home...right?



No.




I am running, pacing, manic with energy and need. It
is feral and wild like a hungry wolf, that threatens to eat
my soul like a tepid-tempered little doe.
I stop, breathing heavily, breath white like smoke
off of the lake to which I am headed. My lake.
They promised. Promised me. Promised me
that this treatment would work, that I would
be a whole person again. No longer a shattered
empty-headed, vacant-eyed vagabond who
had no place to call their own. They promised
the demons that come to call would never call again.
Yet here they are.



Their red-eyed hatred of me pours like blood
from a fresh wound upon the wrist of life. I am
desperate for salvation. So I seek my God, my
suicide God to save me yet again. I have prayed to
him many times, yet he never came to my rescue.
This time, I shall seek and find.



The crystal lake spreads out before me. A testament
to God's own handiwork, creating the Earth. Its beauty
captivates and stills my hurt and beating heart for a
moment in time. The cold is beginning to numb my body.
I find a branch. It's time. Time to end this madness that
noone can seem to cure. This disease of the mind, body and
soul. I break open a piece of the frozen lake and watch
the tiny swirls of water circle down below me.



I am going to be free.

Winterland Reflections

Freshly fallen snow lies in blankets before me,

warmed but only slightly by the sun that clings

to my jacket in glimmering waves.

The mixture of breath and cigarette smoke coils

around my eyes like fire from a dragons tongue.

I breathe for you.

The morning sun is rising in this, our winter wonderland,

and you, still and napping beside me, are starting to

wake.

The previous night's activities flow through

my mind, like the frozen brook over yonder flows

when Spring rolls around, finally. A balmy breath of

warmth for this frozen land.

My hands, furry, spiky objects of white and blue,

spread before me beneath the honey-lemon sunlight,

that soaks them through and through.

On one hand, a ring, a testament of your eternal

love for me, and the other, a scar, a testament of

my eternal damnation within the nightmare of my mind.

The golden orb fades from sight as the thick, black, twist

of branches overtakes the sky from my point of view.

I look upward to see three cardinals nesting,

silent and happy in their humble abode between two angles

of the black licorice tree.

I toss my cigarette into the snow.

Somewhere in the distance I hear your voice calling me back,

back to happiness and home where we sometimes pretend,

albeit poorly, that we are perfectly fine and happy,

just like the cherry red cardinals in the tree.

I turn about face and crunch through the glittering

snow back to our home. I see you standing there,

warmly smiling with your morning cup of coffee in hand,

waiting for me. I smile back. Perhaps this time, I

have finally gotten it right.