You Miss Her, So You Write a Letter

Sparkling blue waves crashed on the jagged rocks set before us. Waves turned to a white spray as they splashed in the air, misting our faces in their tiny kisses. We watched as orange melted into purple above us, powered by a yellow sun retreating into the background. Trained hands couldn’t paint such a scene. And stronger arms couldn’t embrace you as I did.

Your memory was always much better than mine so I won’t even ask if you remember. You were the one who remembered the first dance we had. We didn’t do much dancing, and we didn’t even come with each other. I took the hand of Mary Thatch that evening. She had such a goofy face but her dress was remarkable. The sheer veiling, silk-lace collar, teal patterned corset, and fluffy frills at the waist and all this to say you were still much more stunning, your dress having all the working of hers, someone of nobility, but with that natural form to your body and bold bust.

Your face, bless the light that gets to highlight it, held the shape of the world in those high cheeks and above your cheeks you had crystals in those holes where everyone else keeps mud balls. They lead down to your soft nose and rosy lips, those too, softer than any other pair. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you even as I took Mary’s hand and you took Adam’s, may that be the luckiest he ever gets, but as we stepped in tune I imagined you in my arms, gravitated towards you, and as I enjoyed our imaginary time, crashed into you and Adam. I helped you instead of Mary, your soft hand disappearing in mine.

I wish you could see what happened to your favorite playwright! Needless to say your taste far exceeded that of anyone in history. That’s right, Shakespeare is one of the greatest in history. You used to love his plays, dragging me into that theater countless times. The Globe I think it was? I know you remember that time the place burned down during Henry VIII, when the cannons that sparked the flame thundered loudly, signaling disaster to strike, because who used real cannons at a play? I had a deadly hate of fire, but we watched as the wooden structures turned black and brittle in the heat, and the faces of hundreds of people cloaked in hues of orange and yellow light stood watch. You watched that fire blaze as if you were watching yourself turn to ash, pointing to the point where the flames met the night sky.

Those days meant something to me. Even the threat of fire made me feel alive because you were there. These days mean nothing now. Having you was the greatest gift and now having known you is the greatest curse because I have watched buildings of stone and marble turned to rubble and smashed to dust, the land you once walked on paved over with cement and asphalt, smoke and ash blocking the beautiful sky you once gazed upon and still they dump waste in the water that once held your reflection. They destroy this very Earth that you made so wonderful, that you helped me to see.

I understand why you didn’t want to be turned, why you wouldn’t stay with me in immortality, because it ruins the world you know, breaks down your perception until everything is foreign again, and belittles your experiences. When you left me I wished the world would stay as you knew it, as I knew it with you.

And there's one moment I remember more than you, because of your failing mind, because you had given everything you had to this world. Your wrinkled skin hung from frail bones as you lay there in a bed with as much lace and silk and frills as the dress I first met you in, because I’d remember you like I always remembered you. You laid there fading away, but I still saw that youthful face in place of reality. I promised that I would find a way to die, to join you in the afterlife, to be united in some way again. And we’d finally have an answer to that question you’d sometimes tease me with… “Do vampires go to heaven?”

Until Another Life

Giure