to my dearest

Dearest,

 

It is with all my heart that I am writing to you, my frail words, no match for my heart, overflowing for you, my own words to bare and raw I think to show my heart, but naught else will suit to treat with you.

 

It was two nights ago I was lying between two thick sheets of wool and nylon, on a second story floor, just soft enough that I could sleep, but hard enough to put an ache in my joints and bones. I was lying, and I was a lie. On my side, surrounded by people who knew a fantasy I had spun for them, woven of thread from myself and others, the image was better than me, at least in their eyes, it was a tall boy, still that, a boy, he was ingenious, creative, he told them story’s, he corrected there errors in reading a book of untruth that they held as most high. He was a confident leader to them, but not a presence they payed mind if it was NOT there. I acted the part like a god, no flaw, no misplaced words, I WAS that boy.

And the lights had gone from that stage I was on, I lay, done with my lies for a few brief hours, and I thought of you, of small bits of me that I wrapped in the same cloth, sharp things, my jagged edges, and how I wouldn’t bare to let them cut you. I fell asleep with a thought in my mind, my given wish, a carefully chosen resonance, imitating your fears, making my mind see sound, making my voice high in my own mind, feeling with my ears, weight of me matching, I hope, the weight of you, I feel asleep. Not many can do that, I wish I could not some nights.

 

My dream was single and long, and I knew it for what it was. I awoke with a start, surrounded by insects, but not I truth, I came to myself, and went back to the comforting web of my own lies, I rose, lying, and stayed in lies a whole day. Leading people to think I was something they thought was better and that I thought was less.

 

Love letters are supposed to be about the person who receives them, I suppose I’m not good at being selfless, I’ve only written about myself so far, I’ll change that now, if I can.

 

Love is not a story, in fairy-tales they talk of a sight and then a flutter, a singing heart that tells of the truth of your love, before the first shared words of two souls. I did not fall for you like princes of old story’s, enslaved to their whims, instead each night I knew you I found me wondering about you, not noticing why, every night I had a new question, what is her laugh like, what does she fear, what makes her happy, where dose she look when she thinks, each answer spiraled another question, till one wondering night, my dreaming mind wandered to you, and then, without question, I knew.

 

You’re a star, glowing like a beacon of hope, a lighthouse on a sea of stones and hate filled waters. In your bravery, I can set sail for places unknown, knowing that when I wreck my ship against the wave of hate I stir into storm ahead of me, your there, welcoming, a place for my bedraggled form to swim to.

 

You’re a bird, uncaged after a long life of sad singing, for the first time free to be who you’ve wanted to be, your praise to the sky a match only for your flight, new and alive, into the world, like a raven of the tower, guarding the land by the harsh beauty of your cry.

 

You are the Maid Marian to my robin hood, my clumsily attempts at heroism resulting always in your saving me, Your words a shield for when I go too far in foolish rebellion, Your face a calling trumpet, sounding my king’s return. And all my pursuit of you brings me naught, yet how can I help but hunt the un-catchable quarry, the white stag to my king peter, the lure from the fantasy of my Narnia, to the reality of my wardrobe.

You’re the red winged butterfly, the tiniest flap of your wings sets me spinning, a slow growth of a tornado, whirling away my inhibition, leaving me raw, eyes open, wanting to sing not knowing why in the middle of the night, burning away my caution, drenching my anger with a sudden rain, then fanning it with a gust of wind.

 

There is a dream I have when I’m not asleep, I’m sitting in a red chair, reading a book I’ve never seen, smoking a hookah sometimes, others I’m just sitting alone, waiting, there is a clock o the wall across from me, I can point to the moment I’m waiting for, I don’t know why.

 

Two hours and a few minutes later, a door opens behind me, and a woman, seeming to be in her middle twenty’s walks around me, sitting on a chair to my right, her hair is short this week, and blue today, we’ve been through six years of school, 26 recordings of a deep voiced man, trying to enplane what is happening to him, to the people who change what he is. 15 tear filled nights after a long loved person breaths their last, 6 months of deployment, after a draft was declared for what is surely the last time, two strange hours, as fate took my left hand, and then sent me back, less human, more broken. There is a German sheered, lying next to a rag-doll cat, oblivious to how fast time is flowing around them, around us. You look at me, shaken slightly, I stand, and the book I put down bares my own name, “the collected works of L.s” a pseudonym I’ve decided to keep. This letter is its first passage; I was rereading it, smiling, crying a little, and sometimes breathing not at all. I pour, you drink, and your breath becomes more relaxed, your silence says it all, but I ask anyway, I worry as much as I did when I sat in the theater to watch your first performance, your fist dance among blood and bones “Dupuytren’s contracture”, I ask? You nod, and then smile, relaxing, putting a mental notch into your nimble fingers, one more success, one more proof of your skill. The dog wakes then, coming over, a hand without flesh comforts him. A hand I can’t feel lies over the ghost of mine, possessive.

 

I like my dream, but I love you. And I must tell you this in truth, I will accept this or any other future, if that future is with you.

 

In submission,

Robin

L.s

2/22/2016 10:05 am

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