I wrote you a letter because it seemed the more elegant way to beg via the old fashioned, classic expression of heartbreak. There were never any character limits on love letters.
As I wrote of hopes and fears the salt water lubricated the out spill of words, the slippery sliding of pain out of me. An envelope addressed and stamp bought, a bundle of nerves, doubt and loss dropped into the post box. Weightless to the postman but heavy to my heart. Yet the pain hasn’t gone, not exorcised for being bled out but like blood remaking itself, flowing again and cluttering up my heart with what ifs and if onlys.
My lips are dry and cracked, the tears don’t water them and you tongue doesn’t penetrate them, nor fingers nor cock. Nothing enters me, it only leaves. The shopping list of heatbreak; salt, water, pain, words.