Peach Juice

over the mountains
My Dear Praskovya,

Either, we were meant to be together or I suffer from a sickness of the soul.
All things in this world are transient, but perhaps the connection we share transcends all that we deem tangible.
Since we’ve taken time to be apart, a hole has appeared in my heart, unquenchable.

A hunger I have fumbled to stifle with endless unimaginable inadequate trifle, rhubarb.

As the knife is pulled out, it’s too hard to contain the flow.
For too long I’ve held on, keeping pressure with an old rag.
It seeps, so by this point, there’s no need to hold back.

I bleed.

Profusely.
Do you see, as I do, without me beside you, my heart bleeds and tries to drain me of my spirit?

I know I must have left you bloody and bleeding from an open wound.
It must have been my own hand, which pulled the blade back from inside of you to thrust it into my own flesh.

We’ve both left trails of bloodstained dirt and found a place to rest.

Alas, I fear if we leave this to die in such a way, it would spell a sickly certain death for a sacred thread we carried.

space to restNot one thing is yet to come close to match the wealth I found inside your nest. Nothing is close to the comfort felt in the space between where our cheeks press,
Your breath is missed, mist from the Mediterranean mountaintops drift down to smother the city Pilate so detests.
Your kiss is missed.
Not one thing has come close to replicating, reinstating the feeling I received from the look you gave as you left your kisses on my head.
I hope the love is something that you know we shared.
It is something that will never leave me and it’s never left.
I could not forget.
It’s there, it’s written.
To be read.
Yet, there are still so many things left unsaid.

I miss you.
You take my breath.
I hope you’re blessed.
All the best,

Your Loving Friend.

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