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Image by Vincent Ciro from Pixabay

My dear Sophie,

If I could write you letters Sophie. I would. All my years. That is all that I would. Do.

But my tears are always half-way now. And my glass of wine is always empty.

I return to the same rooms of high structures with one window lit up at 3am. It is always the same window. It is always 3am. And it is always me with my fake suit and my high heels crashed and sinking into the softest bed staring at the window.

I am always alone. Except the few times when I have friend-strangers caressing my belly. I wonder what fetish that is. I wonder if that is their sweet affection from when they were a boy. But do not worry. Him and me just sleep to our own puddles of despair. We wake up to our fractures with our lovers.

Wondering.

Always listening to the last paragraph of the last letter of the one chasing the green light. He is a monster. He is a boy. He is a poet. Deceiving. He deceives. And I flow into his made up empires. Organic.

But why would you be interested in these half tales, dear Sophie. You have your own 3am windows with fetish hands. Fetus hands. To carry.

I do not expect you to write back Sophie. But I expect you to dream of me always and only ever writing. To only you. You reading only me.

Votre ami dévoué

Z.

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