Letters Unsent

From a Desk in New Hampshire


Dear Lover-

            I miss you.

                        I miss the feel of fingers through my hair,

 tickling my scalp,

tugging and tangling there.

I've near forgotten the sound of your breathing,

 whispering past my ear,

 a paintbrush of warmth spreading red down my cheeks and staining my neck.

But I wish most for your curves.

To run my thumbs over the ridges of collarbone and the hollows of your throat, seeking hidden treasures of sun and honey warmed skin there.

The hill at your nape brought such simple pleasure to me.

I miss you, my sweet Apollo-

Come back with the sun.


Dear Lover-

I miss you.

It seems you are gone more often than last year.

On the phone your voice is distant: crackled like colonial paper.

Your letters, they're too colorful.

They are gaudy, and so unlike the forest of green that was your soul.

You tell me of places across the country. A City of Angels come to earth as graffiti.

You seem to fit so well there.

 And you tell me the palm trees are so lovely, my dear.

 But look closer, they are plastic.



I am still real-

or don't you remember?


Dear Lover-

I miss you, though you are still near.

In the next room, hidden by sitcoms and faux leather.

But that isn't you,

can't be,

isn't possibly.

 The city angels have seduced you with their cotton-candy lips and peroxidized tresses,

haloes cocked and taped besides, their 99-cent store Halloween wings dropping a trail of feathers behind them.

 And you fell.

I wish I could retrieve you. My song is no siren's, but yet if you followed, would you, could you leave Hades?

 Perhaps, but I, I am weak.

I would look back.

You seem almost content without me anyways.

You laugh at your comedy as lights flicker vacantly in your eyes.

Tell me, my love-

Does hell get good reception?


My Lover-

Do I even miss you anymore?


When the moon comes out and stains your skin, turning collarbones to ice rivers and the hollow of your throat into a well of shadows where my lips no longer draw honey.

And just maybe, when you smile at a friend,

slow and languorous,

but not so simple as before.

Hidden between that upper curve and lower dimple are secrets drowned deep in the Styx.

It is a dull ache though.

A sailor's pain when the weather is turning.

I've come to hate the rain.


Dear Lover-


                                    Never mind.


Comments always welcome!

Kisses and kittens,


Email: Marble_kittyn@hotmail.com

Webpage: www.kaelyn.devili.sh

Deadjournal: http://www.deadjournal.com/~monochromeangel/