Monday, 17 April 2017

Day Sixteen


I am writing to satisfy a need in me to hold on to something of you. Furthermore, I'm obliged to declare that despite all attempts to return our exchanges, they endure. They remain.

Your letters are stubbornly fireproof. The paper is permanent. The ink is resistant to nails and saltwater. Every day is an exercise in disregarding some peerless idiom.

This is nigh on harassment. To be beset by these mountains of envelopes, blackening the sky, churning out language like fumes that make the head swim - it's obscene. It's perfect.

I can sit for hours watching the words fall out. One day might bring an avalanche. The next, one single word might just roll up, soft and earnest, and cause the sky to wreck itself.

I refer you, for no reason, to the day you said you loved me. It was a correspondence I'd been dumb enough to hope for. My fingers on each letter, a flurry of tumbling heartbeats. I thought it sincere, and I was ever yours.

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