I composed a letter and meant what I said. I baptized it with the sting of my tears, bitter rain in the absence of your sun. I festooned it with calligraphic I’s and O’s and U’s, my pen trying to design a way out of the labyrinth of guilt and regret and love. I dabbed it in the war-paint of my kisses, sealing it as ours, daring anyone to come between my words and your eyes. I slipped it into its papery suitcase and licked the flap shut.
What became of the letter when it left my hands is a mystery yet to be divined. The words in my letter got lost between words, like musical notes that are distorted by wind and wine. What you read—or how you interpreted it—was not what I sent. My kisses provided no protection, and my cursive was no shield. Some words got lost on the way, my love, and others were bitten and torn to shreds by the jealous wind. The few that got to you were so traumatized by their journey that they jumped and shivered and curled up on the page, warping into something not quite like themselves.
So that is why I am here. Another letter would be no different. And I fear how a telephone may warp my words in its wires. There can be no other way. Face-to-face, eye-to-eye, mouth-to-mouth.
Can you hear me now?
"Angreek87"
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