#milli writes

“I don’t know why he wants to meet up or why he’s coming all the way to the west side. He never comes out here,” said Ian. Mickey could hear the tension in his voice as he worried about his brother's motives.

“Maybe he’s having another kid,” suggested Mickey with a chuckle.

“Fuck, I hope not. They can barely afford the two they have,” said Ian.

“Yea well, your brother is an idiot so it’s very likely.” Mickey fiddled with the tv remote as they chatted, muting the sound then flicking through the channels.

“You’re such an asshole,” chuckled Ian.

“Fuck you, douchbag,” Mickey replied, no bite to the words.

“Freak.”

“Dork.”

“Dick breath.”

“Ha! You’re really calling me dick breath?” Mickey laughed, rolling his head back on the sofa with a huge grin.

The phone ruffled as Ian laughed.

“Nice way to wake up this morning,” Mickey said. “Dick breath.”

“What can I say, I got skills, baby,” gloated Ian.

“Yeah, yeah, calm down, dork,” he replied.

“It is so cold out here.” Mickey could hear the slight chatter to Ian’s speech. January had brought lots of snow to Chicago and it wasn’t looking like the temperature was heating up anytime soon.

“Why don’t you wait inside the coffee shop?” Mickey replied.

“Cause, I’m having a smoke and thought I’d call you instead.”

Mickey’s chest tightened and the smile on his face grew.

“Oh yeah, thought you’d bug your husband because you’re bored, did ya?”

“Why the fuck else did we get married?” said Ian, sarcastically.

“Erm, it was for my mild mannered charm and good humour, of course.”

“Mild mannered? How many people have you told to fuck off so far today?”

“Only you, firecrotch,” said Mickey. “Oh and Debbie but that was via text so it doesn’t count.”

“It totally counts. Only two people so far, slow day for you, huh?” asked Ian. “Oh, I think I finally see Lip. Took him long enough.”

“Okay, Red. Say fuck you to your brother for me. I’m clearly behind on my quota today,” said Mickey.

“Will do,” replied Ian. “Love you.”

“Love you too”

i kissed you and i tasted blood on your tongue

yours and mine from where you bit my lip and

when i punched your teeth.

my knuckles are scraped up and your cheek is busted.

i think it’s a little funny that i hate you as a pin your arms

my love, my love my love, my beloathed, beautiful, fanciful rival. you make me want to compete with my feelings until they stop feeling. fuck you, truly, for casting some sort of tantalising pull on yourself. i know you are to be loathed; i know you do not possess one quality i could grow fond of.

perhaps it is merely the thought of destroying your reputation that seduces my mind.

call me back when your insides make the acquaintance of embarrassment,

mon cheri,

that means my darling. you know that, of course. you know i call you that in my head, know you respond with sweetheart in the same sweet fantasy. i made you a mixtape, darling, and i know you hear the melodies but never the words. do you know that you kiss the sunlight on my jaw, when i think of us? do you think you could love the scrape of my nails on your scalp? i’d write you a love song if the words would flow, i’d write a thousand pretty verses. we’d fall asleep to their melodies and wake up in the sunshine on the quilt, our clothes tangled in the sheets. maybe i’d let my cat sleep on my discarded flannel, the same one i’d let you borrow if you so desired. you could feel my heart beating under the cotton and flax of my shirt, if you pressed your hand to my chest. take apart my arteries with your calloused fingers; i could feel your fingertips graze my emotions. you would stitch me back up with your guitar strings, wrap me in threads like a bracelet on my chest. how poetic it is to dream of love; how sad to fall from a fantasy you never knew was real.

sometimes i wish we hadn’t lost the practice of love letters. i could be a soldier, writing to his love from the battlefields. you could be a prince or a congressman drafting lines and longing for peace. how nice it would be, to start letters ‘my dearest.’ historians could ponder the nature of our relationship, far in the future. ‘it was the style of writing in their time,’ they would say. how lovely i think it would be to find love letters in friendly corespondents, if never in your eyes.