Love letter # 474
The once tangible force of your presence has become a kind of archaeology. Fossilised remains. Dead pictures, pressed flat by time. The world we once fashioned with our tender belief compressed to a hush of breath. A clock ticks. It counts the leftover jewels in our crown. We, who made as if all was ours, here with the quietness of rooms unbothered. No more do I recall the touch of your lips – and in the morn, what erasure awakes. Awaits.
The grace of memory is the genius of forgetting. For even love will unlove itself. I may find a strand of your hair in some undusted corner and, scarcely knowing it, prefer the newly brushed surface. The fire may turn to dancing crackle the last ounce of your warmth, yet I will know it as a swirl of smoke. Absence shall have no fibre, no weight. We shall feel it as light. All our strain, our urgent demons…they have walked into the mist, where the arc of a bright white orb shall make this tenuous gossamer melt to a wide blue sea.
Now…not even the trace of sighs. Tomorrow…no sign at all. Save for the immensity of space and the sweet, sweet liberty of yielding.