Recently, in Portugal, I fell in love with a man.
His name? Nathanial Hawthorne, and he is 224 years old.
What do I adore about him?
His ability to absolutely fuck up my afternoons using only words.
We have unfinished chapters, him and I.
Although we’ve only just met, I anticipate quickly returning to him next month —
Where I left him, lying on the couch.
There, he can finish me off.
Seduce me with his weight of sinful guilt, his cruelty of isolation, his failed utopian ideals.
For him, there is no easy redemption; for me, devastation.
He is under my skin. Right now.
A haunting by the ghost of a man who likely dooms every soul that dare to read his works.
The ink from his pen slowly poisoning.
Soon, his centuries-old grief will ruin me completely.
How haunting it will be, to be so exquisitely undone.
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