Love letters are the kinds of things I can only write at night. Hello moon, how do you like these lines? Insomniac sentences who always wear muddy hems, refuse to reveal more than absolutely necessary. And only what’s necessary counts. When I write them down, I want them dirty. Gritty. I want my recipient to find dirt under fingernails after reading. Maybe some behind the ear. Tongue coated in saliva. Do you need a bath, love? Your skin’s looking a little grimy. My love letters aren’t fluent in softness, sweetness, regret. They’ve a bitter edge, tartness. They only lift their dresses when they shouldn’t, are only addressed to who they can’t have. What, moon? Love and her letters aren’t always as pure as you and your Cheshire grin.
Wednesday, 24 April 2019
Don't Think Twice about Love Letters
Love letters are the kinds of things I can only write at night. Hello moon, how do you like these lines? Insomniac sentences who always wear muddy hems, refuse to reveal more than absolutely necessary. And only what’s necessary counts. When I write them down, I want them dirty. Gritty. I want my recipient to find dirt under fingernails after reading. Maybe some behind the ear. Tongue coated in saliva. Do you need a bath, love? Your skin’s looking a little grimy. My love letters aren’t fluent in softness, sweetness, regret. They’ve a bitter edge, tartness. They only lift their dresses when they shouldn’t, are only addressed to who they can’t have. What, moon? Love and her letters aren’t always as pure as you and your Cheshire grin.