Love Letters
Her ink streamed thick and heavy along the lines of my pages giving purpose to my being. I reveled in the weight of each letter — of each word. My parchment pregnant with her musings, I longed to feel the stroke of her felt tip against my paper once more. She rolled so gracefully along my lines, her gentle strokes caressing me into states of excitement and ecstasy. And her words — oh, her words. I have yet to read anything so beautiful as the love-filled poetry she laid across my paper.
I’ve never seen her, but I know her touch as surely as I know my own spine. And her writing. The loops and curves of her letters are more beautiful than a Monet. Not that I have ever had the honor of having one on my own pages, mind you, but I have recently spent a great deal of time on the shelf next to a pompous art history know-it-all.
We used to spend so much of our time together, she and I. She would sleep on top of me, sometimes for hours, others for days — sumptuous, magical days. But I most looked forward to the moments when she would brush against my pages leaving trails of dazzling words in her wake. Even the most mundane of thoughts turned magical when she penned them.
My spine ached. I couldn’t stand one more minute of Mr. Art History’s drivel lest I go insane. If only I could wriggle my way free of this prison. Surely there had been a grave mistake. I didn’t belong on this shelf. I needed to breathe. My pages needed to flutter in the breeze. I needed to feel her inside me.
That was another favorite. When my spine was stretched, and my pages laid bare for all to see, she would be there, lying in the gap. Sometimes she would snuggle deeper and push my leaves further apart. Oh, what I would give to feel the pressure of her slender shaft as she lounged lazily within my crease.
I nudged against Art History and he shoved back at me. That book certainly had attitude. I had to get out of there. I desired her. I couldn’t imagine never feeling the tender brush of her tip against my parchment again. The thought of it made me shiver with regret and longing. A light layer of dust collected against my binding and itched my pages. The desire to be free overwhelmed me. I struggled and I fought, but it had little effect.
One day, perhaps it was a Saturday — without regular reminders, I had begun to lose track of the time — ragged hands jerked me from my spot. I balked momentarily at the rough treatment but then joy and excitement took hold. This was the day. I would feel her again. My pages fluttered with anticipation.
I bounced as I was tossed onto the hard, wooden surface of the desk. Battered and confused, I panted — anxious to know what was happening and desperate for her gentle strokes on my pages. Instead, my cover was torn open with such force that the threads snapped. I cried out as a strange pen slashed through her lovely words. Their beautiful loops and curves assaulted by foreign ink. Salty liquid fell in droplets onto my pages, mixing with the ink and further marring her tidings.
I attempted to wiggle away from the abuse. Her words were being destroyed and there was naught I could do to prevent it.
The liquid fell faster and harder, their sharp sting lessening as my pages soaked through. But the blurring of her words caused the real damage. I screamed, and I cried, but the desecration continued. My heart broke with each marred word. My soul burned black with each mark through her strokes.
And when I thought it could get no worse, my binding was lifted, and I flew through the air, landing with a thud against the flames of the fireplace.
Heat danced around me and I realized that this was to be my end. I would never feel the stroke of her quill against my tender pages. In one last desperate act, I cried out for her, but it was no use. My purpose was done. She could not save me from my fate. My curator —for reasons unknown— had torn us apart.
My heart burned to ash as the flames consumed my parchment. Her words gone forever, her ink merely a memory. I searched my mind’s eye for her. It was the one place she would always remain. As the blaze frisked my binding and charred the soft leather of my cover, I retreated with her into a daydream. In this space, I could feel the weight of her within my crease. I giggled at her featherlight tickles while she danced across my parchment.
With nothing else to come back to, I stayed in the place where our love made a life from the happiest of memories.
