Letter from Yves

It's been so long! It's been so long since we last kissed, since we last held pale hands together as it rained outside the window, since we last talked. It has been so long since your eyes trailed up the vines and into the veils presented by the trees. Ah, yet it has been longer still, since your voice trailed softly into the distance, a cadenza and a diminuendo. Yet I yearn for you, my heart grows fonder even though I realize the past; in it's crystal clear wine bottle.

Oh, I've missed you. I miss you still- even as we speak- even as I write this on the page. What else can I say? Karl and I, the difference between us is that he has no heart. Our great con-artiste claims to have one- a frozen one, yet certainly a heart. This is a lie. If he ever had a heart, it was ripped out years ago and eaten by his mother. You see, I'm capable of emotions. When you left, my dreams were turned asunder- "what dreams?", I hear a member of the audience say- after all, I'm supposed to be dead. The problem with being dead is that one still has dreams. I don't know where those dreams are anymore: perhaps you have seen them? Are they in an alley some place, or in a cafe drinking?
I wish somebody'd hand me a rose.

Upon the treetrunks which I drew as a boy, I now cry upon. I walked past a willow yesterday, and it wept for me. I mutter to myself, in that adorable French accent of mine: I wish I was loved. I do not mean "Yves Saint Laurent": The Brand. I don't even own that, anymore! Gucci owns it, or someone. Some company that sells pharmaceuticals. I am not a pharmaceutical, lovely and forlorn reader. I am not a plastic pill meant to be popped by peroxide-blonde housewives; nor a cure for athletes foot. Pharmaceuticals disgust me. They are not glamorous. You cannot get excited about toothpaste. Non, I am talking about Yves, the person who's meant to be dead. Yves who wants to be loved. Yves who walks the broken boulevards alone.

Yes, dear reader. Time has passed, seasons have withered away, yesterday's news ceases to even be fish and chip wrapper. Yet I am here, once more.

Love,
Yves