Mercy

Dear Bob.

Why the game of tug and war? Why the game of fetch? Why the game of chase? Why the fast, fleeting lick of the mouth in the morning? Why the slow, rough lick of the hands after tea? Why the roll over on the back? Why the crouch on the haunches looking for the wind? Why the peer in the toilet bowl? Why the glance over the shoulder to check you are still on the end of the lead? Why the crunching of biscuits in the night?

But then: Why the raised voices and slamming doors? Why the burnt bread? Why the long silence over dinner? Why the loud singing in the morning? Why the dancing in the hallway? Why the kissing and tickling? Why the rolly-roundy? Why the tears on the Saturday jumper?

It’s too much for me. If only I could crack your chest and Kenny's chest open to peer inside. You can just pull apart the legs, apparently. A terrible mess, is what it would look like. A terrible mess, then, is what it is. What more can we ask for? Terrible mess, spaghetti. Terrible mess, the coral in the sea. Terrible mess, my crumply face. Terrible mess, grass coming out of Kenny.

Terrible mess, this letter. Terrible mess, all writing. Terrible mess, experimental music. Terrible mess, relationship. Terrible mess, bachelorhood. Terrible mess, windy day. Terrible mess, scraggly branches in the Spring. Terrible mess, my dancing. Terrible mess, our limbs thrown randomly around on the bed.

About the only thing that isn’t a terrible mess is the livingroom and kitchen, because I have polished them up like new boots in preparation for your return. Like dog's noses. We can’t wait.

Love,

Richie Pen, and Kenny ‘When?’