March the Thirtieth
Dearest M,
I suppose, in every way I needed to cleanse the blue from my violet lake. I needed to clasp onto the red of the veins, and paint.
What was it you painted for me in the sand the sea washed away—ah yes. Roses. How I hated roses. From the first time one was given me—such ordinary tokens of love. I hate the unoriginality of such things—diamonds, roses, strawberries in chocolate & champagne, and all manner of traditional betrothal.
I questioned how you could not know this—but, how many tokens have I given you? Not many. Five perhaps. Six of we count the stone at the bottom of the lake.
I remember fondly, every heart shaped stone, hewn from the chaos.
How delicious, the smell of earth & the impenetrable millennials they've survived.
This is passion—Chaos & Time.
Affectionately, 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...
