March the Twenty Fourth
Dearest M,
Remember how my lips were smoothed with potion—and we both fell asleep, under the cypress tree. You, breathing me.
I remember how I stood for so long I became a stone. And you crushed me. Lovingly. You sculpted me. Your flesh a wonderful chisel to my granite soul.
Your fingers polished me—slowly—each caress a curve, an exquisite peak, of torture.
The Falcons sang us awake and I lay—just looking at the wilderness in your eyes—
I'm sad now M—not always, but often. I miss those quiet hollows. Those silent kisses of skin to skin—bodies smudged with crushed Crimson cores. I miss more though.
I miss the way you saw my thoughts—by just looking at me. How you tore me open—so exquisitely. Fevered & yet reserved.
I sometimes imagine what it is—to be torn again by love and then folded into origami creations and written on and torn apart again and then burnt...
You always had a way of destroying me, that felt like poetry.
Deep affections, HW
YOU ARE READING
The Letters of Hennessy Wedgewood
Short Story"March the Thirty First Dearest M, I've cut it all away. Gutted it. Every last bit of what I once was. I buried it. It kept emerging like bile on a warm rotting day-I stomped it down. Some graves just can't be dug deep enough. I covered it in ston...
