Dead Letters
Autumn brought cold sunshine and the need to feel whole again. The hollow chest was echoing, full of sound instead of feeling. I have that lime green scarf on, the one that we found at the train station, and my hair is washed out blue, like a damp cloth, you had said. The thankless grim of daylight burns blotches in my eyes and the weather is misbehaving.
Holding onto you for the last time, my veins squirm under my silver skin, swimming. Those nails you had painted are rolling around my tongue, my fingers bleed from their beds. Helpless and eaten with your disease, The Book sings songs still searching. It makes no sense now. Words written by your hand are broken, pulled flat across the page.
The smell of petrol reminds me of camping. The smell of anything reminds me of camping. It’s consumed my senses.
The Book brought pen to page and gave that night reason.
The Book was dead; it didn’t exist until you made it. It was just a dream to get us through the dusty air and delusion.
The Book remembered us. Now I have to forget.
Gasoline melts through pages. Soaking ink and glue and photograph. I should pray. I should pick flowers. Or weep. We are so beyond those times. The lighter flashes, the flame won’t hold. The fire licks and falls, licks and falls, licks and holds, sudden and hungry, eating the corners, the sides, the leather coat. Burning. Your words smell like burning.
I drop you onto the dirt. I drop you from my wet, bloody fingers and watch as orange ribbons suck your little soul away.
The sun sighs and moves slowly beneath the sycamore trees. Night holds me: linger, wait, stay, the ash must cool; you must watch the dead letters blow away.
Testing the waters with the tip of my finger, I begin to scoop the ashes into a plastic bag. Handfuls. And then I scream. I panic, I’m frantic. The ashes fall away, the sulphur smell disappears and The Book shines whole in my hands. Untouched, untainted, unbroken. The Book shines whole in my hands.
