May 28, 2009

My dearest,

The cello grunts, swallows its own weeping and then the cymbals, the chimes begin their bittersweet tinkling. Set the mood, my love, set the dinner table: would that this be the hour of our estate, would you fill me with the truth instead of tender fables, my lips against yours, my mouth overflows with you, my breath you bate. Our caresses are a curse as time washes over us and leaves us bleached clean and dry. We shall age over the ages, till these words have been lost from these pages. The end till the end and some more some more, I promise you all I want is to be your fool, so easily callous in my pride till the day you decide that we shall be no more. The cello commits these rare notes of your song to my memory; may you never decide no more, never decide, never no more.

Yet I am weak, my flesh beckons and calls for not being alone. I am man, says he, not a pillar of salt or stone. I am shameless, I am lust, I am nameless and I am dust. Yet only your touch satisfies me.

You are my waterfall, I shall go chasing no other. A drop of you to quench my thirst and more some more till I burst. I am greedy, a glutton yes, but who could blame me for not settling for less?

You don’t have to depart before you break my heart; you had me in pieces the first night we met, and you are the glue that mended me whole after that. How could it be humanly possible unless by some hand divine that you are so beautiful and that you are mine?

Yours, ever and always.