To my Valentine, more, Teacher . . .
When I go to that end, of land, the sea, do you know what I am going to do? Something done, for me, first, because I love you so? I am going to write you a long letter. A letter, with all the blackness of ink, in my heart remaining. I will pile a fire high with driftwood, dragged dripping from the Wash, out of the salty darkness.
For starters, some meditation; forty-four seconds, should just about do it. In that letter many an Elizabethan descriptive insult penned. And yes, even less nicely, at least uttered, if not finally directed, curses. Turning, dancing around, an air turned blue and seeing red in my transforming, rebirthing fire.
Because there is a part in me to be expunged. Any, any . . . remaining; bring out your dead waiting, anger, resentment, bile, pity…
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