There once was what I thought to be an angel, his white hair spread boyishly over a black pillowcase. I remember fragments sharply. The sound of a car door opening and our bodies spilling out, tangled and nervous.
The smell of cigarettes and desperation, searching for everything but admitting nothing, our faces smooth and seemingly untroubled.
Empty opaque bottles clattering down steep stairs in that shitty goth club...
His long fingered artist's hands spread toward me, open. His broad palms spreading me open. Cool pale skin, so very like expensive paper. I called him my Stardust Angel, and he called me Laura.
Our long sticky summer was over as fast as a shutter clicks...red wine and dancing, stealing glances and snatches of his face, I couldn't look into it, it was like the sun. I withered with love and undefinable teenage lust.
When he left for England I was broken. I imagined all of those watery miles stretched between us. I sent countless letters, poems, paintings, none of them clearly saying how I felt. How I was consumed.
I still have the three letters he sent to me, postmarked on thin air mail paper, worn with age and tucked away with care. East Anglia UK 1998.
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