March the Twenty Eighth
Dearest M,
It's the night that hurts most.
Why is that?
I can feel the blackness & the need for your breath against me. I'm an ache, and little else.
I found the old shoe—the one you couldn't find, that you took off to dry, after slipping a foot into the river.
I remember, the first time you kissed my feet. No one had kissed my feet before. In fact, no one had told me I was beautiful before.
And your eyes, your voice—it was the truest thing is ever heard. You called my name like birdsong & drank me like flowered wine.
How could you do this? Love me. What a silly thing it is you've done—loving me so wholly, so thoroughly.
My knees are buckling again. I'm wearing slip ons. And they're slipping off, and your lips will find my toes, peeking—& hiding.
This night, I'm lonesome for your softness & the taunt strain of you—for the hush blood stain of you.
Affectionately, HW
DU LIEST GERADE
The Letters of Hennessy Wedgewood
Kurzgeschichten"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...
