Letter, November 02, 2015

Poetry — my lips reading your skin like a pen fervently writing, sip after sip of an ardent erotica, inking you indelible, hot breaths and tears tattooed into a poem none can read but you and me. And these poems inked in you — like all living things, like things forged with the force of life — overtime change and grow, even die, but dying they are like seeds in the earth bringing forth gardens and fields bursting with greenery and life. This, the force of life, this, poetry, this, my most holy and sacred, my raw naked heart I plant in you. And in you it will grow, even when I die, through you will impregnate the whole of life. Such is poetry and love as I envision them, infused into one, through our intimacy, our bond. Poetry, love, you — do you not see? you contain all and everything, and through giving you I am only returning but a fraction of what you gave me, my love, not out of a sense of indebtedness, no! but from an infinite gratitude. For, as the sun, through you, for you, I have become a principle of creation, a self-propelled wheel scattering your light into the depth of the universe. I love you, and my life and poetry are my testimony.

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