A Real Cinderella

To Josephine,

I love you no longer; on the contrary, I detest you. You are a wretch, truly perverse, truly stupid, a real Cinderella. You never write to me at all, you do not love your husband; you know the pleasure that your letters give him yet you cannot even manage to write him half a dozen lines, dashed off in a moment!

What then do you do all day, Madame? What business is so vital that it robs you of the time to write to your faithful lover? What attachment can be stifling and pushing aside the love, the tender and constant love which you promised him? Who can this wonderful new lover be who takes up your every moment, rules your days and prevents you from devoting your attention to your husband? Beware, Josephine; one fine night the doors will be broken down and there I shall be.

In truth, I am worried, my love, to have no news from you; write me a four page letter instantly made up from those delightful words which fill my heart with emotion and joy.

I hope to hold you in my arms before long, when I shall lavish upon you a million kisses, burning as the equatorial sun.

Napoleon Bonaparte

Spring 1797

Snow Queen

Ice in her heart
fire behind her eyes
moving past you without a thought
for what she leaves behind; 
Locked in an ivory tower of glass
a castle, her own making, a snow palace.

One coffin as blue as her lips
nobody dares touch, nobody dares kiss;
the frigid snow queen with glacial indifference
and frost on her breath blows her last
frozen kiss of death.

Ice in veins that once made a
warm heart beat, an exquisite corpse
forever remains.