Here appears another paper with his handwriting, perfectly tilted in a 100 degree angle. The first sentence bleeds the essence of the man I fell in love with years ago (like a breath being blown into a still chest...). His words of ink never disappoint. His words of ink, pixels at one point, the beginning of an era named June, have found the weakness in my coke bottle glasses. Never too soon.
And so this letter comes to reflect what I have come to unmake. Under piles of paper in a time when missives were hand delivered, at the end of many phone calls in a time when cords linked ear and mouth to a push button head, there was a ghost called hope. Like a mother holding her child on her lap I nurtured the spirit of something magical every time his face, his name or any part belonging to his world appeared to me. After Golden Bears were laid under the feet of masked hunters and mattresses hung on walls, there were no Ace of clubs left to play. Faint spell over riddles of fists and bar taps could not pull these two fishes together again.
Instead of the typical shuffle of the right left right, I pointed out the door I would take, colouring it yellow when indeed it was red. Many times I tried to speak, to tell, to yell but the sound of the bell was muffled by the sound of bottles instead. It was a mistake to wear lipstick when I was supposed to be dead. Even now, the sound of misery stirring in the belly of an envelope is lifted with the echo of a sea foam poetry. All this broken glass left on the sand, where once waves came to bed, are the bodies of dreams I have drowned.
Today, it used to be today shining like a never-ending summer walk, together. Now today is apart from us. The soul full now, you know how the energy goes.
I will not apologize for surviving the war and protecting my one and only spearhead. My last goodbye kept for the best. Never did I want the opponent to be punished. Let your heavy voice crack under your belief of happiness.
Labels: alarming truthness, artform, montreal, war
