Wordsmoker

Hello Virus darling!  Katie here.  It’s that time of year, again, the celebration of the day of your birth.  So, please forgive me if I’m drunk and naked, lounging about the bedroom in the blue sapphire, imagining your hands on my skin, the taste of your mouth, the weight of your body on mine.  Some years are harder than others, none quite as hard and taut as you.  I brought the Academy Award and Golden Globes to bed with me after my second bottle of wine, but although Oscar’s smooth knob is apropos of everything, they’re proving a rather poor substitute for you.

I know we’ve been through this before, lover, but I’m afraid I need you to tell me again why we never worked out.  Do you not realize What If was about you?  Here I stand alone, with this weight upon my heart.  And it will not go away.  In my head, I keep on looking back, right back to the start, wondering what is was that made you change.  If that wasn’t obvious to you, you were the only one.  It certainly wasn’t about Nic Cage or the ghost of Christmas past.  Would you be the man I used to know?  If I’d stayed.  If you’d tried.  If we could only turn back time.  But I guess we’ll never know.    

I remember back to when you first joined your band and I was making Heavenly Creatures.  Even Peter Jackson thought we were destined to be together.  I heard later he cast Orlando as Legolas in Lord of the Rings inspired by the “bright-eyed ball of fire, lighting up every” day that is you.  The Washington Post wrote of us that your quiet smoldering completes our “delicate, dangerous partnership.” 

Oh, Virus, where did we go wrong?  I guess you know I moved to New York.  I just couldn’t bear to hear clippy British accents day in and day out and not be reminded of you, the sweetness your voice which sounds as though you’re struggling to articulate over a mouth full of my breast.  When I do have to be home and happen to hear a passer-by articulating the subtle nuance of your Glaswegian Native dialect, I immediately lapse back to your raspy come-back-to-bed-for-just-one-more-minute voice and long for the icy air of your flat that always provided the perfect excuse to stay in bed all weekend until your hunger set in and you whispered “C’Moan-Get-Aff”. 

So here’s to you, my love.  I hope it is a lovely day moist with the dew of a damp new dawn and all of its promise.  And I shall carry on another year in my longing, in my throbbing expectation that someday I shall be yours and stand on the hood of a slow moving 1967 Chevy Impala, your arms wrapped tightly around my breasts, your breath on my neck, my arms outstretched, breathing deeply the air of Stranraer.  And until then, my heart will go on.