To my beloved black sea,

It was full dark when I snuck out of the castle to meet you.

You wore those ripped black jeans and your new friend’s boots, with sleet from the forest still in the grooves. You moved awkwardly in your new clothes because you were still creating yourself, like one of your drawings.

We drank vanilla coke from glass bottles and listened to a song about how fast the night changes over and over. Two adults frolicking as youths, French kissing in secret to hide from winter and distract ourselves from the town crumbling around us. The way we touched each other was equally punishing and artful, painting a world where we could be together on each other’s skin.

For a while, we pretended. For a while, I was the kind of woman you could be loyal to and fight for, and you weren’t the lost, forbidden Heathen.

Now, it’s been weeks since I’ve seen you. I’ve decided long ago, and this is my last letter. Everything I’ve worked so hard for—before you came along—will carry on as if our time together never happened.

Don’t bother stopping me. As I once said, the tremor between us will only lead to carnage.

But as I plunge a knife into the chest of the man I once desired to marry, I’ll think of all those foolish nights when we pretended, our time on Bone Island, the vanilla cokes, our stupid song, and you.

Yes, my beloved black sea.

I’ll think of you.

xx, a