According to the Rider Waite cards, the Three of Swords represents emotional pain. There isn't only one sword to wound the wounded party's heart, but there are two other swords to stab either side of the heart to accompany the longest sword puncturing the heart in the middle, crossing at an intersection. Chels, this is the most fucked up way to say I love you, three times.
C, I lost the necklace you gave me. I am sorry. I don't know what happened to it. I'm trying to remember. I don't know if I've broken it while taking it off and it snapped, or if I had lost it at the airport, or if I threw it away under the bridge after you found your next conquest. I wish I still had it. It was one of those chokers (I just realized, how very like you) with hot pink and faded pink lattice meshed together. It's in vogue now and I wish I could retrieve it wherever I've lost it. I miss the way you'd close the clasp at the back of my neck. Such tender touch, the way a barber's cold scissors thrillingly slides at the nape of one's neck.
I remember you wearing your blue private school uniform and I wearing an itchy, maroon one. I wish the skirts were shorter back then. It would have shown your tan legs much better. You always had graceful limbs. You went to an all girl's school, I think. A much more expensive private school.
Why did you have to have a taste for peasant maids? Does a fallen noble count? I think I told you the story of my grandfather who was cheated out of his inheritance by his brothers. And all he had was his last name that meant "Grand Falcon." You would touch my shoulders, to comfort me, as if ready to conspire. Were we two snakes in a garden or two flowers trembling in the wind? I can never tell.
If you were here now, I know you'd hold my hands every time we'd go outside. You're the brave one. The delicious extrovert, who snakes her way gracefully into the crowds. And I'm the introvert that holds you back. I wish you were here beside me. I think I would be less frightened if you were.
Footnote: I know what you're thinking, "Guuurl, why you out here revealing you're a bottom?" O: Ahhh, I know. I feel naked every time I write these love letters. Can't you tell my previous lover was a Slytherin like I am? I can never really enjoy HP that much anymore after the author's tweets, but it's one of those things where you have to separate the art from the artist, in terms of mentioning it around. I don't really like to talk about HP anymore, even though I am still pretty attached to the house I was sorted in.
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