Previously on Letters to Hawksley

Hawksley,

Remember reading cards to tell each other’s fortunes? How we swam in the old poetry appended with morals and conclusions. I hate it when a beautiful poem is spotted by a snotty moral dragged in like a wet cat that stamps its paws thoroughly and stinks up the place… do you remember bathing it that night? The she-thing struggled and refused to surrender… We saw all reasons and consequences in the cards: our past meditations and future worries; and that other lady beside you that maybe I just imagined.

I write to you as I am painting you in my mind: selfish and light-hearted, devoted, slightly bored…almost boring. Do you care? Do I care? Do I care if you care only if I look carefully? Vain reasons, I wouldn’t change a thing. Give me no certainties, no concrete slabs to weigh down our late-night musings under stagnate waters; our sweet, embracing, deathening waters. I refused to believe it was me you
imagined calling to you through the ice last winter…now your poetry breathed life into me and I met suffering. We shook hands and made our acquaintance in the thick darkness of the rain season after you left, Hawksley. You left and the rains followed you, leaving me with a dry throat and bad asthma.

Isadora

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