Love letter # 59
Sunlit autumn afternoons – they are like my desire. The satin soft shimmer of summer; now cool edged and minty. The preposterous, quixotic belief that somehow this warmth will linger; absurd like my stubborn dream.
In this inexorably chilling air, the ghost of a song; its echo receding to inevitable hush. I whisper to these burnt gold leaves – do not fall – knowing they must. And with steamy breath I pray for the sun’s return. As I sing for you.
I am sure I will sleep tonight hoping to wake in spring, even though I know I will not – but certainty never stopped me before. That’s what all these ridiculous words are for. They are the Indian summer of a fevered hunger. They are the last beautiful day.
And in this lovely, gilded air – soft like your gaze used to be – I can almost believe. Believe enough, at least, to ask aloud for one more twirl in the light, for one last tumble of dice. For there is a fire burning here – warm enough for you, my love. Warm enough for you.
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