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.