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TRIBEWORK is about consuming the process of life, the journey, together.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

From Jimmy to Sally, In Loneliness, With Love

Oh, my darling love, I miss you... for a long time now I’ve missed you.
Sweetest of sweetnesses, my Sally, I miss you so awfully much. It tortures me to think on how long it’s been since I felt the nub of your nose against my cheek, felt your glistening hair against my chest, heard your gentle bedtime voice calm me, and tasted your honeyed kisses. I feel lonelier thinking about it, but I cannot help wanting to be there with you, and my memories are all I have... all I have!
I am jealous with rage sometimes to think there are those other men around you, free as birds, while I’m couped up in this cage... but my rage serves me no good, and I know how carefully shrewd you are regarding their crooked wiles. I just miss you so.
The other day one of the other men was talking about their missus. More reminders! I can’t get away from you, yet I never want to. I’m stuck, lonely... afraid with fear.
Please visit me, my darling. My heart grows more dark and fearful by the day. No one likes me and everyone looks at me funny. I know you visited me last week, but the weeks are like years around here. Five years, well that’s going to be a lifetime for me. I will never have my old life back.
I probably sound so sad and depressed that I shouldn’t blame you for turning away.
But I have nobody else, and then as I read those words again, I cover my mouth! You are not just ‘anybody’. You are all I want and need. But I don’t want to smother our love, if at all it can survive this craziness.
Okay, I have to ask... do you still love me? Oh, I hate it that I have to ask. I can just imagine how upsetting it is to have to answer such a question. Please forgive me... please?
I pray I don’t wallow like this forever, but all my hope is washed up on this strange and foreign shore devoid of love. The sand here is searing and abrasive, the days are blazing hot, and the water is unsalable and undrinkable. I’m so thirsty.
But, of course, I’m not on some deserted island. I am in prison. I am a criminal. Who could ever love me?
Please come and give me some hope.
Lots of love,
There are these unfortunates... perhaps even in the realm of your own life. How can we pour love into these people and give them hope?
© 2015 S. J. Wickham.
This article, a letter, was prompted by prison-inspired music played on Noongar Radio, Perth, Western Australia.

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