I think I’m going to write that love letter now.

It hurts to look at your face, you said. Is that the most poetically toxic thing you could say? Because it’s seeping into me like poison. I would ruin your life; I think that’s what it means. Ooh, But I see now, I’m like Pompeii. That kind of ruin. In the milliseconds of my lips, you would trip into my ashes and forget about my heat, letting my lava burn and ooze into your insides. It was an accident.

Down the road, when you look back into the snow globe of your life, the one that God gave you all wrapped up in ribbons; the one he gave for you to see all of your light during the long hours of dusk; you will see me sitting next to your Christmas tree. I’m wrapped up in your sweater.

That day, when you realize that you regret me, well, I’m not sure what confusion that will bring. I took you to such sweet places. I kissed you softly under streetlamps. I destroyed you in the most beautiful way possible. And all the time now you keep wondering what the snake soup tasted like in Hong Kong, and how I am the reason you don’t know.

Maybe it was good you let me go. I just thought we would let the hot ash mold us into concrete Romans. It was so beautiful they wrote about it in history books. Don’t you want to be in a book, my dear? You could sit on someone’s coffee table. Let them look at your face and wonder about your heart. How is your heart, my dear?

My foundation is love. At least, the only things I remember so vividly are the ones that touched my heart. I thought my words would caption your paintings. What a logical thing, you see. But now our logic rests in our heads, with all the other thoughts that have steered us wrong.

The truth is whatever we tell ourselves. So I let my mind write out the words that I feel, until you fade away into the sea with all the other fish that I took off my hook; the hook that lured you into the wading chaos of my soul that was just waiting so patiently to consume you. Swim away, my dear.





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