Dearest Miriam,
Do you remember the first time?
Where we sat on top on the fire escape, bathed in cold moonlight, smoking a cigarette, or you at least you watched me as I did, you took a photo on your camera that night, the photo I’ve never seen, you never showed me because
you said it was more romantic to not see it till it were digitised, “I don’t like looking at it till I put it on my computer”
I’d scoffed at you then. What if I looked bad in it? Did you even care?
Our feet were hanging off the edge that night, we pushed against the railing that budged ever so slightly because if the support gave away it would not be our fault, but just fate that had been tempted, like it was our siren song and not even death could resist our temptation. We were young then, it was a summer break in the middle of high school, and we’d not eaten all day, either of us. Maybe that’s why I felt high, or it could have been the delirium from my three hours of sleep, or the nicotine in my blood, or maybe the hallucinogen that was your perfume, or maybe all four.
I’d kissed you that night and I stayed awake the rest of it thinking about nothing but the touch of your lips on mine, looking into the stars and imagining that the billions of burning balls of gas could not hold a candle to the passion I’d felt in that moment. I’m sorry I kissed you then.
We’d be so good together, I’d said.
I’d treat you better, I’d said.
Better than he ever could, I’d said.
Then kiss me, we’d said.
And we did.
It’s been years since then; I’ve never seen the photo that night but now I don’t think I need to. I have the image of you peering through the viewfinder at me, seeing a more picturesque moment of myself than I ever had in my life, seared into my memory. I find myself sitting on a fire escape again, in college, graduating college, I’m alone this time. I acknowledge the cancer the cigarette between my fingers is fostering in my lungs, like a little babe being cared for by the motherly love of tar, but I find that there’s a comfort in microdosing suicide.
It had been a long time since I saw us, you’d moved borders three times since. I hope you’d be happy to know that I found myself in someone new. You were blue and she is red. I like red, but with her I find myself bleeding purple. Y’know, I miss your blue, the depths captured in your hues, the familiarity of your embrace. It was funny, the way you grew colder as we sunk deeper inside each other; the pressure mounted and your tight hug grew from comforting to suffocating. There was a peace to it though, when we were writhed in each other’s arms. The world outside was muffled, gagged behind a cloth soaked in poppers. My lungs filled with water, like a balloon you’re not sure is close to bursting or not, but I didn’t have trouble breathing, I breathed in you.
Sincerely,
Ione
Dearest Miriam,
Do you remember when I swam in you the first time? I do. Engulfed in all of you, swimming midst the kelp which rose from so far below I couldn’t see where it started, I peered deep into that abyssal cavity, and I remember sinking. I remember when the first of the kelp wrapped itself around my leg, and then the rest snatched at me one by one until I was tethered, unable to move, not wanting to anyway and being pulled in deeper, and as I descended it only got colder, and colder. I remember screaming as the tendrils tore at my skin, gashes oozing blood, the colour blending into the navy. I remember screaming, maybe for help, maybe for you. The words floated upwards encased in bubbles, clawing its way to the surface but when it popped at the precipice, I’m not sure anyone but you were there to hear it, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
I love you, I remember saying. I remember writing you poems, maybe too many because
you’d said it scared you.
I loved you with such fervour, and I’m sorry if you were drowning in it
When I surfaced, when you cast me out, I sat alone cold and naked, shivering till she came along. She saved me then, and she burned hot like the sun.
Sincerely,
Ione
Dearest Miriam,
We first met at a bar. Cliché, right? Meeting someone at a bar? We danced together before we knew each other’s names. There was smoke from the fog machine engulfing the two of us, and the way she danced was mesmerising, the way the smoke weaved around her, brushed against the contours of her body. The smoke turned inside itself and back out, splaying itself bare. The smoke choked the air, it moved in ways that was more than just in pitiful three dimensions, and she moved along with it. The world itself tore around her movements, like she could fold it all and put it in her pocket. She moved like fire, alive. I allowed my fingers to trace her body too, hot to the touch, scalding almost, I let my hand linger at her waist for a moment, we danced closer together, drunk on the scent of her cherry perfume.
I don’t remember that night all too well, actually, I’d probably had too much to drink. I remember her hands in mine, playing with each other’s fingers and looking into each other’s eyes, hers like amber, and like amber I was stuck within them, completely frozen in time. Maybe a some point, I hadn’t said a word for a minute and just stared at her with mouth agape because she’d laughed at me then, it filled me with a warmth I find difficult to describe but there was a gentleness to it, the kind that makes you want to claw your skin off, like a blanket warmed by someone else’s body heat.
I remember this time where we were smoking together on the fire escape, or at least I was watching her smoke, and I relished it second-hand, I swear it tasted sweeter after the smoke was suffused with her breath.
“I want a photo of you” I’d said, but neither of us had a camera,
“I want to remember the night” I’d said, she’d breathed in more smoke, stopping just shy of the filter, I remember raising my hand to her,
“Put it out,” and I’d been marked.
Y’know, I recall when my body was tattered in your waters, when my gashes were oozing blood and I remember it being blue like yours. It was blue with you, a beautiful, cold sapphire, but it’s not red with her.
Why don’t I bleed red?
Sincerely,
Ione
Dearest Miriam,
I remember this one time I was walking with her; we were in the woods. It was Autumn, the leaves told me that. The trees were vibrant orange, red and yellow, and she walked beside me. I remember saying a joke, I don’t even fully remember what it was, the only thing that stays sharp in my mind, a recording like it happened only moments ago was that she’d laughed, she’d laughed hard.
I’d never considered myself funny till I met her. See, it’s kind of crazy; when I speak, my words buffet her, waft off her, kind of like a candle you just blew on gently, she bends and dances, and stands up straight to listen, and then quivers and talks back to me with the heat of her breath touching my skin. I love her, but being engulfed in her flames burns. It singes my skin, and I tear away from it, without even thinking. I feel the gashes on my body welding shut with her flames; it burns so bad that all I find myself craving is a cold rush of water to make it all stop.
But she’s warm, and I like the warmth.
That day in the woods, we took photos, both of us were smiling and standing close together, the heat of our bodies mingling in the air between us. I took significantly more photos of her. When she saw them, she’d laughed at a few, the one’s where she was caught in an awkward position which made it look like she and the tree were about to lunge at each other’s throats, my bet was on the tree. Then she
told me to delete a couple,
which I did protest but she was adamant,
She didn’t like how she looked, and so I obliged her.
She’s intoxicating when I breathe her in. I love her swimming in my lungs, it singes the inside, but I can’t stop, I don’t want to. But even still, why don’t I bleed red? I wish I could just rinse my veins of your pigment, I wish I could bleed such a vibrant vermillion that she’d know that all I have space for is her. There are times when I sit awake far too late into the night, her sleeping in bed next to me and all my thoughts are of
How are you doing?
I hear about you from time to time, but I’ve always wanted to hear from you. I find myself wondering what you’re up to, whether you’ve met someone new, or if you’re still looking, or if you’ve given up, or if you’re dead, I suppose. Though I hope I’d hear about that.
I find myself wondering what you’re studying in college, or if you’re working. Or if you’re married, or if you’re engaged. Or if you opened that restaurant which I’d said I’d be first in line for on opening night.
It scares me to know, a part of my heart seizes when I think about but nevertheless, I find myself wondering if I’d coloured your blood the way you did mine.
Did your water wash away any trace of me? Did part of me ever dissolve into you?
Do you still bleed blue?
Just blue?
Sincerely,
Ione, who wishes she knew where to send these.
Saye Kamal 