Love letter # 713
You were a white blonde child; now you’re honey brown. You were a lissome youth; now your lightness takes a different form. I cannot hold you as you were – except in the trap of memory – for you are not the angel of yore, you are the fractured and complex beauty of now.
If I should love only ghosts, I should do so alone. Were I to hold a flame that only perfect skin may know as warmth, then cold be the room in which I stand. For you are not who you were, nor who I conjure in the fantasy of recollection – because I can hear you breathe, touch the one you have become. It is you who rests besides me, who will wake in my dawn and shine through my day. It is you. After all. You now.
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