IC ❉ 1/? ❉ love-letters of a dead man
Where are you, love?
It's quite late. There are crickets outside, loud in the summer's night, but it's so cold - here. I never thought that a bed could be such a vast expanse of empty black sheets (You know, there are still those stains where you've spilled your champagne; I don't have the heart to have them scrubbed out - they're strangely endearing.) without your smile there to greet me when I turn in the night. A month and twenty-two days and I still expect you to sweep in with an embrace when I open our my bedroom door.
I miss being warm Or waking up in the middle of the night to push you over the edge of the bed, you snore, did you not realise this?
Oh, if you could read this now, you would probably swoon. You would swoon, with all those nuances and ideas of romance running through your head. It would be a sorry sight, since you do not actually know how to swoon properly, how women do so that a gentleman might come running to her aid. You would crumple to the carpet with all your dramatics and flair and I shall laugh at your expense.
But I am a proper gentleman, so I shall fawn over you, and you will curl hands in my lapels, pulling down, and
I cannot bear to continue this. How do you do this, love? The parchment feels cold; I do not speak to it. I want to talk to you, with you, curl my fingers with yours and feel warm once again.
But where are you?
Come back to me. Please.
It's quite late. There are crickets outside, loud in the summer's night, but it's so cold - here. I never thought that a bed could be such a vast expanse of empty black sheets (You know, there are still those stains where you've spilled your champagne; I don't have the heart to have them scrubbed out - they're strangely endearing.) without your smile there to greet me when I turn in the night. A month and twenty-two days and I still expect you to sweep in with an embrace when I open our my bedroom door.
I miss being warm Or waking up in the middle of the night to push you over the edge of the bed, you snore, did you not realise this?
Oh, if you could read this now, you would probably swoon. You would swoon, with all those nuances and ideas of romance running through your head. It would be a sorry sight, since you do not actually know how to swoon properly, how women do so that a gentleman might come running to her aid. You would crumple to the carpet with all your dramatics and flair and I shall laugh at your expense.
But I am a proper gentleman, so I shall fawn over you, and you will curl hands in my lapels, pulling down, and
I cannot bear to continue this. How do you do this, love? The parchment feels cold; I do not speak to it. I want to talk to you, with you, curl my fingers with yours and feel warm once again.
But where are you?
Come back to me. Please.