Letter To A Late Ex-wife

By Nicola Ditty aka britwizz


A postscript to “Hutchinson For Murder One”.

Hutch reflects upon his marriage, and other manners of death.

~ PG for language. Comments and feedback welcome. Share your thoughts with me at britwizz@msn.com ~







I thought I’d found some balance in my life until you walked back in,

Sharp stiletto booted, heavy footed, with your assumed affection -

Tilting my world to expose the soft underbelly of our shared past.


It’s funny how differently we remember the same events;

Distance has a habit of altering perspective,

And, after all, we always came at things from opposite directions.

Always taking the truth to split it into asymmetrical halves.

Back then our words were ragged fingernails scrabbling for purchase;

Raking and tearing at each other, leaving bloodied tracks behind

Without ever having raised a hand. Raised voices alone can do all that,

If the force behind them is strong enough. And it was… Too often, it was.

Our dialogue was filled with countless acts of sedition

Resisting the stricture of the vows that bound us.


But I remember, too, slothful Sundays wrapped in each other’s arm,

Each other’s skin, it sometimes seemed, and still not close enough.

The whole day spent staring at each other, love-drunk and lazy.

And I would write songs and sonnets on the bowed perfection of your smile

Or the color of your eyes. And you? You made gifts of silent adoration,

With liberal offerings of your body, your heart and your beautiful spirit.


So when did ‘I do’ become ‘I wish we never’?

What made a strong seam become a line of fracture?

And how could we, who loved so sweetly, turn passion to poison

That left us speechless…deaf…blind to the other’s needs?

So we blundered about, running into each other with hands flailing -

Connecting randomly like Helen-fucking-Keller.


Trial and error made us expert marksmen;

Thank God towards the end of things the arsenal ran low.

We kept things simple, with an economy of words,

Taking careful aim and hitting the target every time.

Our energies depleted, we didn’t even use our hands -

You left without the customary bruises.


Wounds heal, scars fade, bones mend;

Even bad blood will naturally replenish.

All it takes is time, a period of rest.

We came together for one night only,

And still maintained a safe distance.

Or an almost-distance that was almost safe.

Strange, and not a little humbling,

That I was the least of your concerns.


I wish we’d had the chance to talk.

I wish you could have told me.

I wish we could have said goodbye…


How long will you still hold me?







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