Letter, October 11, 2015

Oblivion, the great Master — to vanish amid his folds holding your hand, what more can a man aspire for? Of what more can lovers dream?

On this autumn morning I write to you, a stillness in my heart, a silence in my veins. At dawn the sickle moon made its way into my room and you were there. I felt your cheek brushing my own as our eyes were united in a single gaze beholding the moon and stars. I felt your breath in mine as your heartbeat made its way to merge with my own.

You do not believe me. But even if you’re not here, even if you will never be, in the end what is my life if not a dance with you to a music we alone can hear?

Forgive my fragmented thoughts, but if love is true then the poems are complete, flawed as they might otherwise be.



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