Dear Mister with the Bleak Face
Feelings are good, and manners are dead, but there is another reason I am out of bed. I have awakened not to repent, but to shed light on a sin. A sin that tasted like the first bite of knowledge, a sin that felt like the first dose of serotonin, a sin that needs no guilt, but holds a moral reckoning, a sin that inhales a slow death but causes a faster addiction. She was never a part of the plan, but more or less another D strum sadness that rung away, and rang back to your ear, while my ear stayed lonely with the friend that sang the tune. But a friends attempt to fill one owns desire for lust, is that attempt of a mouth trying to do the duty of a hand; surely it can be done, but no physical satisfaction will be visible. My words are a middle man’s language offered to the wrong recipient. These words, like her voice, shall be for your ears only, but understand my muse is her. I write as a brother, who in good faith, would write to his father asking for forgiveness over a political quarrel at the dinner table. I write not as forgiveness, but as understanding. What will you say when I say I sighted her? What will you say when I say I explored her? What will you say when I say our bodies were in symmetry? What will you say when I say sounds took over the meaning of words? What will you say when I say I miss her? Because I know the promise you made on her finger, but things haven't been the same since she's left my bed.
Sincerely, the Boy on Holiday