When we were younger….
We used to be lovers…

Now we’ve grown older…
We are borers,
Drilling into each other’s souls
Seeking for chunks of coals that smells foul

Doesn’t it stink?
It tastes even like ink.

It tastes even like blood.

***

Adele sang, ‘Send my love to your new lover, we both know we ain’t kids no more”
You know she ain’t right.
You know she ain’t right baby.

Dear Sophia,
I write you this letter with my hands stained with blood. It looks just like palm oil and it’s dripping on this white sheet of paper, like tears from a widow’s eyes. By the time it gets to you, it would have turned brown, like chocolate. No, not chocolate. Maybe like rust. This blood ain’t no ordinary blood sweetie. It’s the blood of a thief.
Does that even make sense?

Dear Sophia,
Were we ever in love? Like ever? I don’t know about you. But I was. I really was. I was so in love that some nights, I fantasized about you sitting on a throne, my lips kissing your feet, the smell of incense wafting around us. It was that deep. I wanted to leave myself and enter into you. To be one with you. One flesh. One blood. You said you loved me too, but C’mon, now I know you lied. You were dancing with me the dance of infatuating infants, your smile like the wonderful design on the head of the King Cobra. Beautiful but dangerous. Dangerous but enticing. Damn.

Suddenly we became old. Like dried Almonds. Juices sucked out.

So I bought a ring. I was to propose you on Monday, last week. I wanted the juice to come back into our lives.
Then I saw your note. “I’m sorry dear but I’m with John now. You know we ain’t good no more. Just thought to let you know. I’m sorry.”
So cold and brutal. Hell, what did I not give you? Cash? I worked hard, day and night to get you all you wanted. Love? It was overflowing from me, like a full pot of boiling banga soup. It was thick too. Like those socks we wore during cold hammatan mornings.
I. Sacrificed. Everything. For. You.

Just two weeks ago, we were young.
Not anymore.

Dear Mary,
I’m sorry, the blood dripping on this paper is John’s. He is a Thief. That is what you made him anyway. He is lying on my bathroom floor, as still as steel.
He is dead.
Hahahahaha

You will call the police? Please do. Tell them to come check my house. You know what they will find? My decaying body, and dead hands holding a paper.
I hope you get to read that one too.
Yours eternally,
Me.