Letters to Prime: Prisoner 926179 (The Hermès Family)

by Rae Anderson

Maybe in a different timeline. A different lifetime perhaps we exist together beyond the pages of these letters. Maybe I miss you because I know you. My soul knows you from a different time.

I imagine, like a sax, your neck draped over my shoulder. Your eyes closed. Your body—your legs curled over my lap while I play those keys. These fingers do precisely what they’re supposed to.

Tell me: is it warm and buttery like caramel? Or is it chocolatey sweet? Or is it white mocha cream? Don’t send me any photos. I’d much rather live in this fantasy. Live in the dreams of us on a beach. Put that pussy on ice for me.

I wonder if —when I get home— all that sweet shit you’ve been talking writing will still stand. Wonder if that pussy’s still on ice, or has it defrosted for a lame? Wonder if you’d give a nigga the time of day or just look the other way? Wonder if you’ll try to get your lick back for me ignoring you? Wonder if I’m in love, or is it just prison talk?