virgin
Dear Ciara,
Virgin came out today. God, how I needed it. We both made a pact to listen somewhere beautiful. I wandered through the Botanic Gardens, drenched in tropical green and sea hibiscus; you drove and parked at a spot overlooking rolling, temperate blue hills. Together, 2500 kilometres apart, we listened to Lorde tell us how to feel. Let ourselves be absorbed by her words and then spat out again. Clear blue, transparent, exposed, vulnerable. So let me be vulnerable.
I send these letters to you because I don’t think anybody’s understands me the way you do. People come close, of course—The Organist has unwoven my stitches and spilled my guts—but only you know how they came to be arranged the way they are. You’ve lived with me through my highs and lows, the shades of brown and moss-green that have bloomed and died within me. You’ve spat my name out of love, out of rage, out of spite. We’ve dreamt each other’s dreams and read each other’s diaries. I quote you when I say that we have “stolen each other over and over again”.
I’m sorry if sometimes this is all too much. If Dear Ciara and the words I write are too confronting. If my love for you is sometimes possessive. If I sometimes expect more from our friendship than I should.
The song for today is:
I can’t pick one. I can’t. All of Virgin is today. Every word. Every soundscape.
Love,
The Gardener