Weaving in Dear love

Dear love,

I’ve ignored every letter you’ve sent. They sit in a pile as old mail always does. I know what’s inside each one even though the words are all different. They are invitations to a dance that turns the stomach and renders one weak.

You’ve been gone for years now. I pray each day to a sun god that when the light hits your eyes you awaken and forget me. Let the moon swallow me from your memory. Let the night bring you so much comfort you simply cannot think of the girl who got away. But as any man on a journey, you write home.

I am not your home but the letters arrive anyways. Whenever they arrive I worry they whisper of your return. I wonder if I should continue weaving, building a shawl so that you never return. It isn’t to keep the suitors at bay, lover. It’s to keep you far far away. If my hands are busy enough, if my mind refuses to be idle, I cannot think of you.

You, on your odyssey of pain, bringing death and anguish to every island you visit. You, who could charm the gods with your silver tongue. You, who I wish would fall into the sea and be drowned by the sirens within.

I wish you ill, lover.

I wish that my weaving would keep your frightful letters away. I wish that my world would never whisper your name. I wish that my life was never connected to yours. Why is the price of bedding you to pay for all eternity? To be frightened of the shadows? To feel my pulse race whenever I spring one of the traps you set?

Die in the sea, Odysseus. Drown and never breathe again.

With regards,
Penelope