what holds me to my words

But of course, it's 2 already.  Enjoy.


You wrote me a letter.


It's beautiful, of course. Every word, has its scent of rawness, and I forget, for a while, the point you're trying to make. You never meant for me to see. I never meant for myself to see, either. So why do I keep reading? Why am I shifting through the pages of your HB leaded handwriting? I don't know. I don't know.


Five minutes later, it hits me.


It's ugly, of course. Reality is always far cruder, far more haphazard, far more hateful. Diffident, but, hateful. I hear myself laugh, and I wonder why. I really have gone mad.


It used to be, that you wrote to me on scented paper. Flower petals laced the bottoms of those envelopes, and you Sealed With A Kiss every single one of them. Your lines were endearingly crooked, and you dotted your i's with smiley faces. Every single one of them. I hardly knew how to contain the sort of bubbly, fantastic cage of butterflies you unleashed in my heart.


But they're all dead now, no doubt about that.


Except for one! It still lives. It flutters, weakly, forcefully. But it's trying to adjust to the cadavers of its former lovers, the yellow tiger patterns that had glowed with such intense fervor. 'It's trying to escape,' I try to tell you. 'It wants to be with you.' 


And one day, it did. It found its way through a web of capillaries and arteries and all those other things that I care not for, and found its niche on the tip of your finger. I remember, you didn't know what to do with it. It was so battered. So hideous. So lonely, lost. I thought you might shoo it away, put it on a nearby daisy, something. But instead, you told it, 


'You're lovely.'


Since then, I haven't been able to let go of you.