It is with deepest regret that I announce that I am no longer interested in your bees.
A few months back, I may have found time for your riddles and your god and your nesting habits.
I have grown into a large woman–upwards as opposed to outwards–and my voluminous presence, tight and cut as it may be, will now crush your fragile skeleton. Please try not to take it personally.
There have been rumors that we were seen together, but I know I wasn’t there because I was dead at the time. You have remade me in some imago image–imagine that. I am Frankenstein’s Hipster. I am awful and just so.
I would congratulate you on your funeral, but I do not speak in tongues. My uncontrollable twitching is semaphore and it communicates to you: “I love your beard, as well as your games.” And it is an honest assessment of the things I feel while in nature, or sometimes on the toilet. I hope you realize what this means. I do owe you fifteen dollars, but you’ll not see one red cent of it until you take my gestures seriously.
Just so you know, I saw you on Wednesday, and I was not impressed. Kangaroos have more sac than you. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. You and your puppy love have ruined my favorite coffee bar. I shall never enjoy lapsang souchong again, you wilted botch-job.
Like I have told you so many times before, life ends with a tea party. You forgot how to drink, and I tried to assist you. You’ve thrown all my sweet lovely lovings back into my basket, and I resent that. I wove that basket myself while dreaming of your orange eyes.
I miss you, Walrus Bill. I want to have your marmot babies. I want to feel your beard against my soul. I want to smell the pains of your existence with the same intensity that I hear the sound of cells dying in my body. I wake up in the mornings, scrambling for my phone, hoping to see a message from your face.
As I lay there, dark and cold at the eye of the mountain, I remembered the kettle had been left on, and I left you there. And for that I deeply regret to inform you that I no longer have time for your bees.
This is not deja vu. This is not real life. This is not your toothbrush, Billy.
Tomorrow will be better, and I can sleep alone at last in the birdhouse I have built from the detritus of God’s wasted creations. I would invite you in, but you are 50 feet tall and white as the moon. I need sleep.
I need you.
I hope you don’t read this. I hope Judith’s illiteracy has not gotten better. I pray that Father Nell has the strength to heft the weight of his nuclear arsenal. And, beyond the twinkle in his eyes, I did see you standing there, naked and glorious in the hell that hath been wrought by my foolishness. You blind me. You bind me. You devour me and find the meal unsatisfying.
It’s the bile. I apologize.
I didn’t know you would come back, love.
I didn’t know I’d break like this.
I want more than your eyes can look in horror upon.