Letter

I'm writting...

When the earth thawed I came to sit on the mound.

Thick grass carpet sprawled beneath me, soft and squishy and hugging the densly packed ground. It stood in the full sun, far away from the sea, just to the left of the middle of the gorge, beautifuly warm and inviting.

I sat on it and enjoyed the warmth with the soft sun streching across the plain and I listened to the trickle of water over the stones. Heart was fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird but I breathed deeply and drank from my sack and waited for my brain to stop burning the inside of my skull. Last time I was here I sang, with my voice amplifyed by the cliffs into a blinding crescendo of effort and sound,.. blinding crescendo to blind me to the work in front of me.

Letter

I'm writing...

There is snow outside and my nook is warm and fragrant. Using wattles and clay I enclosed my cave, arranged fireplace in such way that the smoke would not accumulate indoors, using driftwood I set up tiles and shelves for crops. A gaze of my hoard fills me with bliss. Cauldron gently squeals hanging over the fireplace, porridge with herbs smells divine.

I was busy.

I kept myself busy so I wouldn't think. About you. But it is not working any more.

Letter

I'm writing...

I sit by the fire watching the troglodyte shadows waver on cave walls.

Small pile of tears and shreds that used to be a rope laughs at me from the corner. As in a dream I touch them and let them fall from my hands flutteringly, hemplike.

I wake up crazed by fear that I'll forget how you look like.

Letter

I’m writing...

It may have been two days, it may have been twenty.

When I opened my eyes it was dark and I was lying and waiting to see whether it will darken or dawn. Nook stank. I stank. Water in the bottom of the bucket was warm and green with algae. My eyes were stinging from dust and ashes of the fire that went out who knows when. I strained to patch up at least a few pieces of feverous memories into picture of past few days.

There was a stick seized from the sea standing by the entrance and it took me to the water.

On my way back I heavy-heartedly noticed that the sand had eaten the eggs fallen from the nest that should have been mine.

Letter

I'm writing...

Tonight I dreamt of us in front of our house in Kansas.

In color.

You were sitting in the rocking chair in the patio knitting a blanket, and I was refreshing wooden fence with white paint. Cerulean sky extended over vast neighborless expanse, all the way to the black line of the horizon. We were being silent as the wind trailed around the trees and chimed chain links of the swing hanging from the tree branch in our yard.

In the next moment I found myself kneeling in font of you, holding your face in the palms of my hands and kissing you warmly and contented like we have our whole lives in front of us. When I, with smile wider than the Pacific Ocean, moved away, you asked:

“Does it hurt?”

And before I could even ask: “What?” I lowered my gaze to my shirt drenched with blood.

* * *

In the morning I could not get up.

Letter

I'm writing...

I woke up with my mouth full of acid. Cloudless sky was getting tinted yellow and pink.

Dew was glistening in semidarkness.

I walked up to the water, one foot in front of the other, rummaging in my mind through last night's dreams, sticky and thick mush of lies, quicksand of overblown emotions.

„I'm worried. “ – I said to honeysuckle shrub, scooped up water with my cupped palms and, instead of washing my face, I stared into my reflection in spring crater for a long time.

Letter

I'm writing…

It was midnight when the rabbit fell out of the sky. With a thump, softly; causing a small cloud of dust to rise. There was a disappointed yelp of she-wolf from above.

I picked up still warm, limp body by its hindlegs. Blood was trickling from the ears of the head smashed over a stone ledge. It is high. Too high.

I skinned and disemboweled my unexpected gift. Churned the fire. I felt so proud of hauling over a bucket of water before sundown. Before soon, rabbit and roots stew was bubbling happily in the cauldron. I was lying flat on my back, watching the sparks mix with stars, overjoyed with the thought of a copious breakfast.

Letter

I'm writing…

I'm dreaming rich. All-encompassing. I smell and taste. Touch. I see and hear. I dive in and resurface.

By day, I offer my bare back to the Sun. She licks me yearningly, fierce. Salty droplets creep down the hairline. Fists are tingling. Shovel is gleaming.

I sing 'till I remain voiceless. In bitter silence, gorge walls reverberate my song.

Letter

I'm writing:

Dear, the nights are so cold.

I dream, covered over my head, in the mist of breath, how with my eyes closed, under the blanket I search for the soft fleece of your crotch. You greet me, hot and salty, with crown of your scent.

I wake up in sweat, firm and confused. I search for you in darkness within too long minutes, unwilling to admit I know where I am.