Dear June (2026 Edition)
Boshemia editor L revisits our beloved Letters to June series of years past.
Dear June
You arrived this year with a long, deep fissure in the fabric of your form; a gaping canyon charting the distance between desire and possession, between yearning and having.
It pulls everything it touches into its frayed folds, consuming all that is good and stealing the soft promise of newness from my grasp before I had barely felt the texture of it.
Where is your languidness, June, your jaunty ease? You feel unfamiliar – too aloof, too distant, too cool to the touch.
There’s a gnawing in your soul; it clings to your skin like static, pulses around you winkingly, knowingly, as you reach for the promise of a feast in barren waters. It tars you with mired purpling hues, sore and stark against your gently tinged skies.
Paint the riotous sunset for me, I beg,
Shed your skin and spill your hot guts onto the shy horizon. To feel the raw flesh of you in transience would be enough.
The absence of your sweet airs is heavy; the rustle of sunlight through the fig tree calls to your memory. I miss your warmth tracing my skin. I miss the sigh of a lilting breeze rippling through me. I yearn for the hope and beginnings you bestow when you are in good humour.
I’ll dress your wounds, June, in spider silk and creeping ivy; stop up the all-consuming chasm with morning dew and thick vine.
Rest a little longer, if you please; give me but a kind morsel and I’ll await your banquet.
– L
