Dear Love,
London is crumbling;
the city is rocked by tremors
that collapse its foundations.
You cannot see the sun.
The sky is a swarm of ravens,
black as oil, rushing, fleeing
from the ghosts of ancients
who have risen from the catacombs.
They are so confused, poor things;
they wander the streets and cry out for loves long lost.
Most pretend not to hear and speed up their walk
Or duck under some semi-stable structure
In order to avoid the rubble.
But Love, I spotted one who looked like you
Had you succumbed to consumption and died young.
I chased it down, and asked it for a tale
After I listened to the song of life and death, it kissed my cheek.
The searing cold of the kiss thrummed through my veins.
This shade wanted me to join it, to leap off of Big Ben into its waiting arms,
but I declined, for I had to be stay living for you.
I pocketed a piece of the clock though, a souvenir for you, Love.
Wish you were here.
Dear Love,
Paris is burning.
Cathedrals are ash.
The city shines like the day while the sun is sleeping.
I cupped my hands in the swirling Seine, raised it to my lips,
It flamed on my tongue, and in the back of my throat.
But oh, how electric the thrum of my own panicked heartbeat!
This place has always been one of turmoil;
At night I can hear the whispery singing of those who scorned docility,
who wished to remake the world anew, to shape it in their hands like an earthy clay.
The birthplace of Madame Guillotine.
I’ve met so many of her victims, they frequent the patisseries.
In one Cafe, I swear, I sat beside the Sun King.
My french is subpar, love, but I asked him how he liked this new Paris.
He straightened his cravat and smiled, (I believe he enjoys the spectacle).
I regret that you’re not with me, in the city of passion.
There are no inhibitions now, the lovers walk freely
And perfect strangers leap into each other’s embrace,
all victims of the primal desire to be held.
I am alone, witnessing all of this as if behind glass,
but I’ve kissed this note so often that my lipstick has created something of a painting, see?
Miss you all the same, though.
Dear Love,
Venice is drowning.
The buildings are islands fighting against the rising tide,
and the people paddle about on floating cities composed of all they hold dear.
Aging paperbacks, glittering coins, loaves of bread,
nothing seems to sink except us.
These makeshift rafts are teeming with crowds
clothed in rust red and buttercup yellow,
And some sit alone, like dragons presiding over their hoards.
The children open their pink mouths and sing with the voices of cellos
I float on my back down the eternal canals, staring at the fading sun
It dripped a milky wax that hit the water like softened hail
That the Venetians fished out of the water, and they would stuff their ears,
for at sundown, velvet-voiced women would rise from the canals,
Promising answers to every question ever conceived.
And a naive man or woman would beg these sirens to take them, to drag them under.
So many were lost in this fashion.
I must confess I almost was struck by an intoxicating haze.
That must be why the very possibility of drowning never entered my mind.
I was in deep, my last breath escaping to the surface in bubbles,
the grips of the women tight on my arms, I screamed your name, Love.
Did you hear me? Did you send the fisherman’s hook that dragged me to salvation?
The gentleman shared his grapes, allowed me rest on his floating vineyard.
I ache for you, my Love, in this world full of horrors and wonders.
Every fiber of me repeats a single thought, over and over, day after day:
I wish that you were still in it.
