i am a beautiful and fucking ugly thing

Dear Isobel,
I am as untitled as my latest poems will be. Or as the existence of my love. I am sure you know these things by now; pointless dreams that come as heavy winged creatures with long mouths and sad eyes and those nights I stare at pink walls, for they desperately need a new coat, or wallpaper that won’t peel when I pick at it.

No matter the mundane things, the unmade bed, soft vocalizations of Billie Holidae; never mind the terrible sobs that might arise and shake the entire house at odd hours. My heart has decided to curl from it’s dark tomb and sigh itself into existence and spill all confessions, unspoken, unnamed. I refuse to look at the words I write; for they are longing and envious for your voice, the flawless way the ugliest word becomes beautiful.

After this storm passes, I will be silent. And not myself. But I will hope you call.

I hope I still reach you from afar as, I am not long poetic, these winds are too harsh and smell of some failure, and do not deserve to caress you. Neither do these rains that spill as my soul.

Yet, I yearn to be you as three shades of blue.

Love, Adoles