Manic Letters

This is a confession. No, perhaps this is a love letter.

It's a lit match to alcohol-soaked paper. Consuming wildfires burning wildflowers. Words and poetry... A rant ? a story? A whisper, no no it's a secret. I'm gonna sit here and write my secrets out for you.

There is so much smoke, do I cleave my skin off to shield your eyes or do I let you rip your hair out to weave a basket to keep it away from my eyes.

Who taught us that love had to be destructive and so focused on sacrifice. We can rest our faces in the nooks of the other’s neck, no more irritated eyes. You smell like candied caramels my English teacher gave us. Have I earned the privilege?

You don't feel like work, you feel like home. I'm getting attached too fast, aren't I?

Slow and steady wins the race, is my anchor gonna let me down? Am I setting myself for wreckage? Titanic 2.0. Is our ship glorious enough… forget that. What bacteria will it house? I hope it's bioluminescent, shining as bright as your smile on even the cloudiest days. That they like the mushrooms that digest their food outside the body, the wreckage nourishing you like you did to me, heaps of quotes and a mountain of show recommendations, slipping words that would knock the breath out of me. I won't mind reefs enveloping me either, offering them support like you did all those... I want to say 3 am but that's cliche and untrue it was usually 2 or 4 am.

What we had was like bread, a staple in all meals but during the buttered-toast phase, completely ravished each other. Nobody dares keep us apart. It was the same yet it was new. It was old and used yet it was beautiful in the way your grandma’s college day pictures are. They're so mundane and yet exquisite, sometimes they claw at your heart that you'll never be able to meet the woman in the picture, the one who wore haute couture, who painted every dusk, who made crass jokes. That's not true though, you did meet her, she doesn't look like the image but that girl is still in her, she taught you how to hold a paintbrush and colour the world. What we have is that type of beautiful, always on edge that it might slip out of our hands like grains of sand but oh so therapeutic, a necessity like art

You looked me in my eye, thanked me for being your friend, you're an idiot. It is my honour.

Would you like to sit under the stars and share some moon pie dressed with the syrup of honesty?

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I know what this is now.

It's a eulogy to a bond that is still alive, to a person who is still in my life. But you know my heart is puppeteered by fear so I prepare for death.

I love you

-P