Letters to my anonymous, my beloved, Ms B. Letter I. By Stephen J. Dawson Jr.

Letter I:

To my honey, B.
I must first express my sympathy and apologise for not being there when you needed me. But please, just read on as I beg on my knees. I was listening to a few selected poems on the long drive home when the gas light came on. As I stopped at the petrol station, I thought of thee and how you provoked such a buzzing ecstasy. We should meet again, if only as friends. I promise you my honesty. This time will be different, you’ll see. Mon chéri, you’ve always been magnificent so kind, benevolent to me. But I pushed you too far, and as you ran to your car, I began rehearsing my apology. I wish I could face you but I’d blush a red flush and embarrass myself in the eyes that are held in that plushèd body. I digress no more, it goes as such:

I should’ve never touched you with a clenched fist when all you’ve ever done was touched the twist in my heart and mentioned my name to all of your friends to be vain. You were proud of me. Now, I see. You were always wild, yet always tame.

My rage once was an animal that’s mild at best, but as if it kicked a hornet’s nest, began to fright easily and hide behind fight. My temper grew short to protect me, I’m sure, but what of the rest? The other beings and sleep? Counting sheep after sheep.

My feelings were deep and I coward before this beast I became, the mask that I wore. A great grizzly bear had bore all my will then but before him, when I would stand a cowardly stand, I’d stare, pretend to grin, prepare to bear, shaven, cold, naked; bare.

I thought of you once. A fight we had where no one had won. You had a quick tongue, venomous and sharp. A sting of your wit was writ in my heart. To pluck it out was to pluck at a harp but the notes were too flat, too true, and too sharp.

That night you became too busy for me. No salve on my wound, no comforting tea. See, he was born then and spoke in my ear, “’tis thine enemy,” he lied when he said, “the fault is on her.”

I was blinded by rage but now I can see. So, he is now dead, I killed him with lead, a precisely placed bullet fired straight to his head.

This letter’s a promise to, if you accept, be humble before you, stay sober and peaceful, to stand straight and not stumble. Always stay quiet. Never buzzed like I was. A true Western man. Hovering near without folly or bumble.

So, if you’ll have me, which I beg of you please, I’ll make you my Queen, my sweetest nectar, serene, so precious, so pure, my dear honey B.

Sincerely yours,

Stephen J. Dawson Jr.

p.s. I heard a faint buzz, some gossip, a rumour, that I guess I’ll tell you next time. Now, if only the mailman would chime my bell to tell me he’ll send you my words come Hell or high water. O, if Monday would only come sooner.


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