Suffering and Sapphism

Pathos In Passion

To my dearest Clarissa,

Oh, my love, the very writing of your name evokes such a fury at our separation! I miss you terribly.

True, I encounter you still, but they are but your spectral clones, impalpable, whose fine skin resembling yours cannot perceive my tender kisses, whose red currant lips cannot moan at my midnight fondling, whose existence reaches no further than within the dull cage of my own memory. 

(I don't even know what I am saying. You see, you gorgeous phantom, you've driven me mad! Extraordinary: your mere echo is as deafening as your presence.)

I even dream of you (and I have never dreamt of anyone before), dreams of wrath and murder - not the murder of anyone in particular, but a general carnage (perhaps a fore glimpse into our punishing fate!) but we are always together in those dreams, hand-in-hand, a bubble of bliss amidst terror and chaos.

My, what mawkish, absurd rubbish I write when you are not here to stop me! Let me say now then, quite simply, lest my true message goes unclear: I love you, and I desperately wish more than anything to see you again.

P.S.

Oh, and, Clarissa, I expect a response. If you do not write me back soon I suspect I shall simply die (for why then, absent of your love, should my heart even beat?) But I wish to hear nothing of what risks accompany our correspondence - I shall be particularly irritated if you speak again of your father's assumed disapproval of our relationship, thus precluding one in the first place. What do you fear he might say, or do? Perhaps he won't condemn us as you think, and even supposing he does, why should it matter?

If to hell this love shall drag us, or if in hell this love was born, I care not, for my love for you is so voraciously infinite and intense I am suddenly prepared to weep with passion (and indeed, my tears shall wash away every flame and fire hell could conjure, my divine demon, my sapphic succubus, my Clarissa.)

Eternally Yours,
Charlotte