If, at the right time and at the right place, you find the letters I have written in secret, in the twilight and the moonlight, then read them slowly. It has been so long since I have given my words, wrapped them in ribbon, turned the envelope to rose stems in hopes you’d press the pages to your face and breathe in.
I never understood your begging, how you’d hold my hands so gently. You said each finger was something great. You said my palms were volumes meant to be given. That I was built in beauty, and even the way I grasped my pen was a story.
I supposed then, and suppose still, that love can make people say crazy things.
You wanted it all. All the scraps and unfinished poems. All the smeared adjectives and misplaced commas. Every little bit of it that had any little bit of you in it. It may as well have been glass. The way I showed you yourself, the way I peeled it back and undressed you — it may as well have been the sparks we made with our bones.
Starting fires still, Lady Lazarus?
I’ve said it all; I’ve said too much. If you find my letters, kiss me. If you find my letters, go blind. If you find my letters, read them slow. Remember I am flesh and blood and guts. Remember I am not pretty. Remember, they’re just words (even if I meant them then & always will) — just words, just paper, just letters.
Take me in your arms.
Hold my hands gently.
Look at me, flesh and blood and guts, and give me something to keep in the twilight and the moonlight.