Love letter # 366
I never really stopped loving you. Didn’t get the chance to. Which leaves the memory of you relatively untarnished; still lustrous, still the nigh miraculous possibility. The drudgery of years and the cooling of fires never applied to you. You left before ordinary set in. Maybe that was prescient of you.
In the silence that remained you quietly flowered, such that, though I have neither heard from nor seen you for many a season, you are today the ever-fruiting branch. All blossom and sugars. Every day resplendent in sunshine. The perfection that, as we both know could never be sustained by real human beings.
Yet perhaps I would trade this fantasy for an hour at your side. For a word. For questions answered or rendered irrelevant. Because it may well be that the flesh and the blood, the skin and the scent, your breath and your form are all the more wonderful than these gossamer dreams. Are we ready for our manifold flaws? For who and what we are? For the death of desire – or its reboot?
Maybe I’ll never know. Or you won’t care and it won’t matter. This could well be a waste of keystrokes.
Unless of course…