(5. Adoles Speaks

February 12

Dear Isobel, 

     I hate the way  you are like liquid. Envelopes me in movements and drowns me to the sound of violin and children crying. And that, is significant to my own child, the one tucked underneath skin that lost its luster, and muscles suffering from dystrophy, and the lining of my organs that's been eaten away long ago, and even the fat that hangs there as discarded lullabies and memories, and parts of him I try to save.

     You hair like darkness but today is it the gold I always talk about and it is a halo of discontentment and destruction; you is a walking goddess finding death in every touch. And once upon a time, a sun. Unable to thrive in my darkness, the ones of my breasts, like odd French dancers smiling often, and the ones along my thighs never touched by the caress of a man.

     Only mine, you whisper on other nights I laid in your arms and cried about the only man I ever loved. He dug himself into my flesh, became a scar of living tissue. A sad-eyed boy kissed them and told me they were perfect. And you told me they were like crusted stardust. I said they were hideous because they meant I would always be his. 

     I told you to not find herself in the cavities of my stomach for it's so shrunken inside it's sticking to my spine. But you wouldn't listen and found yourself stepping round gravestones and the slummed yards and decayed buildings and hear the cries of hagel Hitler! and smiled when you said Jupiter was in orbit, just because you could.

     I never saw you again with that gentle smile but hands cold, in memory.  And I heard you as those lips for med the word god, and I was left standing asking: où est-il? in a muted voice with the sounds of thunder and lightning and death surrounding us. 

&

May 15

Dear Isobel,
          I am as untitled as my latest poems will be. Or as the existence of my love. I am sure you know these things by now; pointless dreams that come as heavy winged creatures with long mouths and sad eyes and those nights I stare at pink walls, for they desperately need a new coat, or wallpaper that won't peel when I pick at it.
          No matter the mundane things, the unmade bed, soft vocalizations of Billie Holidae; never mind the terrible sobs that might arise and shake the entire house at odd hours. My heart has decided to curl from it's dark tomb and sigh itself into existence and spill all confessions, unspoken, unnamed. I refuse to look at the words I write; for they are longing and envious for your voice, the flawless way the ugliest word becomes beautiful.
          After this storm passes, I will be silent. And not myself. But I will hope you call.
          I hope I still reach you from afar as, I am not long poetic, these winds are too harsh and smell of some failure, and do not deserve to caress you. Neither do these rains that spill as my soul.
          Yet, I yearn to be you as three shades of blue.