in a copy of Hamlet purchased at a used book store, tucked between the pages of Act Four.
Letter for a December Baby
You’ll like being the girl that listens to jazz and languidly floats thought out the open bathroom window on puffs of cigarette smoke. You’ll find yourself happiest like a moving painting with no speech- all image and form. These quiet, winter night hours when you haven’t spoken a word- just glided through your apartment like a ghost touching where and when you want. Expressing the supreme form of solitude that will drive your desire to reenter humanity feeling like you have a richness to offer, a texture gained from opiate night visions when the world seems to be only a canvas of your imagination. Yes, a shell of eyes and breasts and legs and color, but far from the ill connotation of emptiness. Your shell, an oyster even, taking in the small particles of a scientific world and rolling them around in silky nacre, all in preparation for a hardening, an anticipation for the transfer from your fleshy pieces of warm sanctuary to a reality where you wildly insist there lies hope for their beauty.
You will not always be this girl.
But tonight, and for now, it is the particular season of your life.