Love letter # 354

Time may well erode my memory of you but not how I remember. I have already forgotten the sound of your voice, the curve of your waist, the scent of your freshly washed skin. In truth, I can barely picture you now, let alone recall the soft weight of your touch. The factual traces are scarce. Only the bias of tenderness remains.

Is it an illusion to think of you thus? The common folly of nostalgia – the edge and the grit worn smooth – edited by years and foolish yearnings? Indeed, to think of you at all, with even a scintilla of fondness, maybe regarded as a form of poetic madness. Yet what beauty lives inside this wistful distemper. What subtle glory dwells in the act of blurred futility. For sometimes it is the knave who stumbles, lost and longing, upon the unlikely nook where treasure lies – disguised, yet still able to catch a sparkle of the remnant light.

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