Charlemagne — I was 18 when you went off to Middle Earth. Angelica in her golden palace; French and posh receiving gifts of gold from desert merchants. Swimming in the love letters — perfumed parchment, perfect cursive — I’d almost forget you’d be dodging bullets, writing me serenades between flashes of fire fights.
You felt so young and powerful in your dress blues; so confident and deadly holding that rifle. Still, never dared to raise a trigger finger towards my direction, never harmed a single ringlet about my crown. I was your princess. You were my charming. That was our happy ending.
To the younger me:
Be ready — they’re gonna leave your baby in Fallujah.
They’re going to declare a jihad against your heartbeat, and you’ll lock yourself up for eons in a tall tower. Every pounding arrhythmia will cease to be, replaced by a chorus of tinnitus.
Rapunzel, you’ll let your leg hairs grow so long, you’ll throw the ends out the window, spiders will climb them like vines and nip your skin, you’ll drench every pillow. You’ll collapse from within.
Time is an illusion. Time is not a dimension–don’t be so stupid. Time is a devil. Put down the physics textbook and begin to write your poetry opus. Don’t forget to burn it after you finish. Press forward, because time heals no wounds, time heals nothing.
I lament every second I was not at his feet anointing him with holy oil. Close my eyes and graze the fresh cut grass of his buzzcut. Lips caress the feather of his eyelashes. Nipping the apple of his cheek. Deep timbre of his throat, the way his adam’s apple bounced.
So hold him closely. Kiss his whole body. You cannot stop him. (But please, beg him to stay.)