My lady, my ephemeral voice from the phone, first heard over wires not connected to walls or was that the acid you suggested had probably been a bad idea? “Drugs are bad, sweetie, unless you got the good shit.”
My princess, my voice of reason through drunken haze, the payphone on a Friday night; the only number I could remember drunk: “well, if he’s cute and kisses well, go for it, but make sure the bartender sees you leave.”
My queen, her laughter at her court jester, and the iron stare and feral smile at anyone else who might be disturbed by my presence: the European skank trying to join the party with a free lap dance; Boris picking up my tab, as someone ratted me unwilling touching bosom
My friend, as I touch the soft wisps of hair left after the terrible/awful, your fingers through my hair after the terrible/awful; breasts en pointe, full on sex-kitten meeting new people to scare them away; discussing new beaus and Beaujolais one to one with the familiarity and sarcasm that comes from being kin or kith
My sister, miles away yet close through media; will people understand years from now about plagues and pandemics? Will they feel what it is like to want to be a medium walk away, full of joy and love and wine, face hurting from laughing and talking for hours on end and instead screaming FUCK at a computer screen? Then composing the hard questions in the DMs, and offering what insights and sounding boards I can.
My goddess, hundreds of facets, each still shining for all those in your life who love you for what you represent, you say you don’t have the strength for this bullshit disease, but you still have the reason and wisdom and love and sarcasm and still bring us joy, and if we could change everything through sheer love alone, your world would already be as perfect, as it is for us having you in our lives.
My cuppycake: forever your pumpykins.