March the Thirty Second
Dearest M,
It was the sand within us—dropping from the narrowing of our ribs to the wide of our hips—this is what drove these wedges between each our individual vertebrae. This is what women are made of. There is no sugar.
I sometimes stand, letting each block of my spine teeter, then, relish the fall. I lay on the cool of the floor—remembering, as your skin had layered against mine that autumn day, and just feel, the expansion of my ribs against the chill. I'm alone now. I'm always alone. Even in company.
But with you, even when you're gone, I'm not alone.
You are the sway that my spine stacks against—the air—your fingers have been plucking my lips for songs since forever.
The grass cannot bend in the wind, without it being, your steps.
I've collapsed here, to the floor, just to feel the skin of you. Let us just lie here, a moment more...
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...
