Chelsea Faye Leigh (just1rosepetal) wrote,
Chelsea Faye Leigh
just1rosepetal

Letter As Literature Project

I'm not going to lie; sometimes I really love for my thoughts take me. And I definitely love what NYU is providing for me.

Dearest Love,

Tonight I spent my lonesome hours observing an odd couple in our corner table of a darkly light restaurant. I place such great emphasis (and I hope you can hear it in my voice as you read this postcard aloud to the empty air) on ‘our’ because had we been there, you know just as well as I, we would have had our shoulders caressing one another’s in that corner. Not them. And that is why I find them so odd; so artificially flavored with “love.”
I almost felt humiliated for her. You could tell she was terribly naïve. She had all symptoms like a contagious flu. Of course, her man was no better. He was cruel and I was scared. Scared of what a criminal he was. How he was robbing her of the love she believed they possessed. I could see that he was bound to murder such a fantasy. She would be committed to tears and he would flee himself into the distance… armed and ready to rob another young woman of her childhood dream of romance.

I sat at the bar for hours listening to Diana Armstrong play amongst the walls. I ordered a 2001 blend of Zinfandel and Syrah each time. It reminded me of us; how together we lend ourselves to such enticing flavors and aromas. Oh, what I would I give to taste you now!

Is it unpractical how loyal I am to you? I find myself, perhaps insensibly, committed. Take tonight as an example; as I ordered my wine I placed an order for you. I made myself believe you were freshening up in the restroom and waited anxiously for our ritual cheers. My manicured nails drummed themselves against the marble tabletop; anticipating what you would say we were celebrating this time. I did not want to drink unless we were becoming intoxicated by the ripe berry together. But when you did not come, I accepted my ideas for just being ideals and buried this reality by taking both glasses of wine down in few swallows.

Oh darling, I am insensible and I cannot deny this mental extremity any longer. It is the result of intoxication from love. They can call us dangerous; write us prescriptions for our harmed health. But we are addicts. Addicted to the sharp inhale. Addicted to the second we breathe in and are left feeling light-headed. Maybe it is that. Maybe it is this light-headedness that is making us not think correctly or at all about our enamored love, our fanatical fervor for one another.
Darling, I am drunk. Intoxicated by love. Intoxicated by the berries in each glass from tonight. Darling, I am scared. Scared that you will rob me of my dream. Scared that you will be that criminal I sit in the corner table with. Scared that I will be that terribly naïve female a stranger in love is looking upon; feeling humiliated for her obvious flu of fantastical “love.”


Dearest Love,

Catch each of these words as if they were leaves running from you in the wind. Rapidly and chaotically like a poet on the speed of his emotions and in the confusion of his dreams. And I am the only one you have ever known to be so stir crazy. An unpredictable weather report. A hurricane-what’s-her-face.

Catch each of these words as if they were leaves running from you in the wind. They whisper to you as they float past your ear and into the sky your hand is too short to reach. My breath is the wind pulling my words further from your palm. But try, try and clutch a hand full. Grab hold to as many as you can to place back together the branch on to which they have detached themselves from.

Catch each of these words as if they were leaves running from you in the wind. As you do so tiredly, but with admirable determination, just remember my roots are still grounded in the rich soil of our love. And I hope you continue to water me with life so I can grow further into you.

Catch each of these words as if they were leaves running from you in the wind. Run! Race! Race after them. Race after me before I find another yard to land myself in. Before I find another pile of leaves to snuggle myself between. My words--the leaves--want so desperately to stay upon the branch of the tree that you water with our love. But sometimes the weather leaves me detached and pushes me towards another home, another hand that is fast enough to grasp me. Grab me! Run! Race! I need your water to live. I need your love to grow.

--

Dearest Love,

I write to you the morning after my engagement with the moon. “Out of guilt?” you may conceive. But I swear with all of my heart that I answer sincerely when saying, “No.” It is you I thought of as my back penetrated the field I slept against. I felt the blades of grass wrap their fingers around my hips and thighs, as if they were your own. Each touch was orchestrated with such delicacy and precision that I could only sigh in thought of you.

Yet as quickly as my heart began to rise, it fell deeply into the soil once I saw the moon parched in Van Gogh’s starry sky. For as breathless as it may have left the clouds that had filled the backdrop of the day, the moon had taken my breath away. I do not blame this deprivation on the inadequacy of the moon’s color for it was brilliantly illuminated and had paired itself perfectly with the thousands of stars that had stayed awake in the evening, like loyal companions.

Instead, I blame the moon for its shape. The way it cradles itself in the night as a perfect half. And it is for that reason that I write to you in the morning. It is for that reason that I am so surprised to have awoken from a sleep that felt as deep as death, as dark as night and as dangerous as the two combined.

Last night I felt as if I was that moon. Yet, helplessly missing the characteristics that make it shine. The very nature of its shape made me feel as though half of me were missing. The half that makes me as bright as the sun. The half that makes me whole. The half that makes me one. The half that is you.

Please do not find me to be dramatic and unpractical. Saint Augustine has said the very thing in his Confessions and he was all the more brilliant for it. He wrote, “Someone has well said of his friend, ‘He was half my soul’. I had felt that my soul and his soul were ‘one soul in two bodies’. So my life was to me a horror. I did not wish to live with only half of myself.”

Without you I feel rushed to be put asleep. Time is a waste when you are not here to flirt away the sun with, just so we can frolic in the night. Time is dark when you are not here because I have no smile to make the sun alive. Time must be accelerated, Love, for I cannot bare to engage myself with the moon until I am a whole again with you.


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