Just another wet letter

Perhaps... your silence, my sweet tormentor, has a texture. Like cold sandpaper passed through many hands, brushes and grit? Rough, scratching... it gives me the creeps and scares me. Sadism?

When you talk, I see the color of your voice swirling around your face. Red and then burnt orange. Drifting, fading. It’s not magic, it’s reality. It is simply... heavy. It suffocates me, sometimes.

The days drip like honey, slow and thick and sweet, sticking to my wings. They aren’t to blame, not for me, not for you. I try to sketch the soft sound of the rain, but it looks like grey smoke, nothing but smoke with you..

Is this real, what I feel? Tell me, please? Or am I just listening too carefully when I shouldn’t be?

Anyway, I still keep the logical pretenses. The brass trumpet smells like charcoal. Bitter. And the noise? It buzzes, it brushes, it aches.

I wait for resurrection from you. I worry that the life I live is madness. But I... I either built it or perhaps I accepted it.

But maybe—perhaps only—it is the only way to truly taste the world. A messy, beautiful meal. Waiting for resurrection.