This piece is based on Levi the Poets album Correspondence and was inspired by a message Levi sent to me through email via his newsletter of wanting to be apart of my birthday.
Going 30 and being without friends, family and loved ones makes this birthday more bitter than sweet. But I’m sustained, blessed and completely indebted to my friends that are worldwide for loving me through this time. To you all, I can’t thank you enough for the salve that’s been made purely from your love and kindness to help ease my wounds.
Without you I would have bled out long ago.
Please enjoy Levi the Poets album which you can find below.
Correspondence (A Fiction) Levi The Poet
I don’t know if you’ll even get to read this let alone recognise me. I’m @ThisIsSpecious from twitter where we talked about how I used your verses as vows.
If you’ll forgive me for it, I’d like to meet your verse with my own. A Response to Correspondence. I do not know.
I just wanted to thank you for this, as both the captain of the ship and the mercliest tide has taken my love to sea. I woke up to find his raft has sliped from the docks without a word or whisper.
I still don’t know if his raft is lost at sea or merely docked somewhere I cant reach. I have no idea what to believe, but it pulls me beyond myself like I never had a choice.
On the week of a milestone I turn to the verse that hangs on the wall about the moon guiding you safely to me. But what joy can be found in 30 when there is nothing to come home to?
I sit in our treehouse that sits rotting from the rain, eroding from the pain as the boards creek under my feet and gives way to my weigh I wonder how much load there is to bear. Will I ever be able to plant my feet?
The fruits of the tree no longer give life, rotten or empty husks. We swore when pruning the decay from the roots that we knew the consequences. Yet, I sit alone now unable to multiply while your seeds can bear life outside of me.
It was for the health of the tree to cure the rot but you poured that out with me like the perbebial babe in the bathwater and I’m left naked and alone and afraid.
How can a flower bloom once its been picked? On the life support of sweetened water and salt it may grow roots or it may rot. How can I choose when I’ve already been severed from the body?
He was a mountain to me, an unshakeable, unsinkable force. The world never got inside of his boat or so i thought. Maybe i couldn’t see the nucks and the holes. Captived by strong sturdy sides and polish. A fine vessel. Only to reveal its rot was also to its core.
It never bothered me, the work that goes into repair. As an endlessly broken creature I know the work that goes into making things whole again. The curing and puring of fire and water. The removal of impurities only to be crushed up and fed to flame again.
I don’t know how to sit still when everything is burning. Setting myself on fire only to be tempered by the rot and damp of the wood from our treehouse leaves me paralysed. It cannot burn with me nor can the damp put me out.
So i sit here inbetween the smell of burnt skin, blistering pain, rotten wood and smoke and flame.
Praying. Begging for pain. Begging for movement.
Only to know my form will reveal me as something new by the end and while I hear of the phonixs glory no one ever talks about how it feels to be burnt alive.
And i am constantly burning.
On the 30th milestone I sit alone in our treehouse. There are no birds that sing, no friends to greet and nothing to celebrate. You never celebrate the death of a tree or the plucking of a flower.
You’re just left to sit there and silently weep.
I kinda wrote this off the top of my head so im sorry if it doesnt make sense.
Looking forward to hearing from you if the glass bottle makes its way across the divide.