Dirty paper arrives in a crinkled envelope, and Felicity’s handwriting has bled across the page.
‘i miss you. are you HAPPY? you have deconstructed me from a monster to whatever i am when i am with you.
melancholia was my friend when i awoke this morning. i dreamt i had left the revolvers and we had left saros. no one could seperate us, no gods, no land, no mortals. and i woke to the cruel terran alto sands and the sound of richard attempting to sing. (do you remember that morning when he woke us? i have seen little beauty in this world that can rival your eyes filled with fire.)
one day, i pray this silly dream could be more than a dream, but whilst the revolvers are together, i am inclined to stay. i enjoy this circus performance; watching steven use chemicals as a recipe for happiness, derek has left (s-s-sadly), calper is being calper and clawing at my clothing, richard will not stop singing. i think i almost miss jack.
my eyes and mind must be liquid still for me to comprehend any of the above to be truth, but this: the sooner i see you the sooner the noise in my head will stop.
i miss the quiet you bring.
‘I miss parting the folds of your clothing. I miss waking in the morning with you, even if it is so rudely cut into by a baboon’s voice. I miss your arms and eyes. I am not happy. Apart from you I feel terribly alone, and I have not felt this way before. I have always enjoyed my independence; however, I have come to wish to destroy things with you by my side. And only you.
My bird we have constructed ourselves a gilded cage of torment when we are apart. It is cruel that we must be under any circumstances. However, for now I shall continue living as I have, and I dream fondly of you, if I dream of what I wish to. I dream of our blood running together as blades kiss like mouths would.
I come on the wings you have torn from me and reassembled. I shall be there before the moon rises and we can dance.
Wind upon her back and in the heavy crimson locks of her hair, Captain arrived in two evening’s time. The sky was an impressionist’s painting of vibrancy and light, tangerine and ruby bled together as cloud brushes pushed along with heavy strokes of saturated colour. Her shadow drew long before it pulled into her body under the awning of the bar.
Tomorrow she would know the camp of the Revolver’s, tucked in her lover’s arms, but for now she sought the only ground they both knew easily, could find without code. Smoke hung heavy in the rafters and on the lips of drunkards. Whiskey coated the walls and tables, and sank into her own locks as she strode through the circus of men without teeth and then some with golden teeth.
The gold she searched for came only in a more muted tone, but it caught her eye as she crossed the stage like a performer, pausing with the intention to dip fingers into locks. Hand wavered in the air, and lingered there like her breath. It had been too long, and she swore she could feel the gears in her heart begin again. “My mute bird.”