21st August 1963

Heavy spats of rain echoed at the rattly window panes, yet the summer heat sweltered through Graceland. It’s uncomfortable, sweaty.

And there he knelt before you, knees against the plush silver carpet as you sat on the bed, head against your supple thigh. Sweaty face against the soft cotton fabric of your baby blue dress. Elvis. Your Elvis.

Your broken, shell of a boy. Your little Elvis. So overworked by that foul man of a manager, over halfway to death. But the cameras see the same King, the same Cadillac, the same slick hair, the smooth talking gentleman. And you get this when he comes home to you. Always you.

There’s quiet little mumblings leaving his lips; shaky, sweaty hands clasped together as dry, cracked lips meet your leg.

“Let me live… Lord, please let me live..”

Your sweetheart. Your poor little sweetheart.