nine letters to six people that i should send and consequently never will.

they are not all for the same person, just most of them. i doubt that the people these are meant for will ever know they exist, let alone get to read them.

dear you.
my hair is lilac. it used to be purple but the colour faded like the colour drained from your skin. my summer skin is kissed with freckles and splattered with bruises, where as yours was splattered with rainbows of ink and clouds of blood.

dear you.
you could speak three languages. your first, english, learnt from your mother. your second, heartbreak, inflicted from your father. your third, love, you said you were taught by me, (though i remember no lessons) and you insisted to speak it to everyone but me.
i can speak one language. it is yours and only you can understand it.

dear you.
you would sit and scribble over the same spot on a page for hours, a page that was usually still attached to my notebook. it would create a nib-sized hole several pages deep, welling up with ink and spewing fumes and bleeding ink out so as to create the perfect distraction from all the work i was meant to be doing.

dear you.
you never used to tell me things, just let the words fall from your mouth, then scrabble at them and breathe in deeply to try and regain them before you regretted letting them hit the flaw and crawl up my body and into my heart. we would say things, but oh, we couldn't speak.

dear you.
i would be trapped, always, agaisnt the wall and your inhumanly strong presence. your hands would trace previous roads across my back and find every bruise more tender than the last, and i would love you for it because this is who we are when we are ourselves.

dear you.
you would intoxicate my lungs with your smell of sleep and of lynx and i would hate to breathe in afterwards because that is what i wanted. Always. Always sleepy and lynx-scented and tangled bedsheets because when we cant sleep at night we'd find all the strangest ways of lying. Some days we'd wake up the wrong way round and wouldn't care because guess what? we had woken.

dear you.
it was your birthday and you brought presents for everyone else, something only you would do. i was desperate to pause, to live in this moment forever because everyone was happy and the forboding sense of inky hands and eyes never occured.

dear you.
you have eyes like the universe imploding. no one had ever seen the universe implode, but you told me that's what it's like looking out through them. you're all rotting and screaming and falling away from me and i can't stop it because i am not a god and this is the universe we're talking about. i can't stop it because when i'm looking through these shatter-proof windows at you, the universe is imploding and i don't actually care because there is an sense of impending happiness.

dear you. the most beautiful and final you.
you have these crazy ideas about a zombie apocalypse, and how the world is going to end in 2012 and i don't care because i'm not scared of death because to imagaine you can't even comprehend what you're seeing is black is an acient form of bhuddist meditation, and it is peaceful and easy because you don't have to worry about deadlines and cancer and bloody global warming and
gosh, we are so ready to live.

Author's Note

id really aperciate your thoughts to help me improve. thank you.