Love letter # 513

Perhaps I do not know what love is – this complex, convoluted feeling we sometimes conjure – but I am certain that, whatever the philosophers say, I love you.

Is it a dream, a hormonal mechanism, a justification of my innate desire for validation? Will it fall apart under scrutiny, dissolving into observance? Are you my ritual partner?

However prosaic things appear, perhaps there is still chance for the poetry of suspended disbelief. If we call it into being by faith alone, at least it shall be of our making. Even if it be futile, still it may be wondrous.

Is this then, our love revealed? Weaver of song, transformer of night. I cannot say for sure where it may end, yet I can promise to begin. For with this trembling step I…

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