ᴀᴜɢᴜsᴛɪɴᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ⁞×
[Dear Mr. Love Expert]
⁞
Dedicated to Francia. If, by some chance, you are reading this—you will know who you are.
I don't own APH.
⁞
Monsieur expert d'amour,
I love an older man.
Or, that's one way I could have written this letter; to be honest, I cannot remember how to write. I was once rather good at it. Chaucer taught me how to write. Shakespeare taught me how to write. Blake and Burns, Dickens and Swift—I was once a master of comedy and satire, poetry and prose, the romantic and the tragic.
I don't suppose I need any of that for this purpose of this letter.
I had a childhood friend. In the bright, blurry images buried in my memory, he stands out with his glistening golden hair. It was a magical sight, silken and glowing and alive with movement even when the air was still. It was disgusting. I might have loved him even then, but his locks were lovelier than I. I would have removed his head just to have removed his hair. It drove me half mad, that I was no match for even this one part of him. I was young and crude and ugly in my innocence. It was no good.
So I changed. As we grew older, I grew stronger. I surpassed him in strength, in power, in influence, in everything I could think of. I could crush the things that once crushed me, and I was able to surround myself with the gold I had been so jealous of. I decked myself in shining accessories, buried myself in lavishness. With time, I became wiser and learned.
I wasn't satisfied. The mirror taunted me; it would have taken the miller's daughter to spin my straw hair into gold, and Rumpelstiltskin is one fairytale I don't believe in.
It seemed that, in my rise to the top, I had nearly forgotten my motive. Fortunately, I came to remember my feelings. I recalled with great clarity how much I loved this man, as well as how much I loathed him.
It was a battle I fought every day and—if I were to be honest—it was my favourite one. I loved him, I loved him, I loved him, and I hated him. I loved him so much I would have carved the tears off his face. I loved him so much I refused to marry him.
Eventually, I lost my place in the world. Present day, I am waiting. We have always had something special, and I'm waiting for him to return to me. He's not unfaithful; I think many people have that wrong about him. It's only that he needs love the way a rose needs water. Without love, he's in the dark—he withers. It's beautiful.
He has gone to someone else because I left him in the dark too long. It was too tempting. A rose in bloom tempts picking; in the same way, I wanted to torment him longer. But it would have killed him as it would have killed the rose, and that beauty would have been lost to me forever.
(I write with such simpering similes because I have a feeling you'd appreciate it.)
Regardless, I know he'll come back. He'll let his guard down. He'll miss me. He's a masochist disguised as a sadist and I'm everything he needs.
That's not why I'm writing.
What does he think about all this?
Tell me. I want to know.
Sincerely,
My Anonymity Has Already Been Lost Somewhere
⁞
Francia, you make me write when I don't want to. You help me write when I do. There is no question of whether or not I want you to be my muse, nor whether you want to be mine; you just are.
