I carry the memory in my breath. On my skin. As a live current in my wires. Our first giddy weeks. The entire universe transformed. The clatter of living rendered symphonic.
The beauty of it still draws tears from dry recollection. Acting like fools, feeling like gods. Somehow above everything. Immune.
No matter that we now know better. The body remains the archive of wonderful folly, just as time is the measure of ordinary downfall. There are truths we cannot deny, realities I know we must confront, but in the temple of blood and fire the light still feels like revelation.
Strange, how the flesh preserves the dust of dreaming; as though, in our imperfect human form, the architecture of the ideal is envisioned. It is the ineffable choreography that my muscles remember. Not you. Not us. Rather, a dance we briefly took part in.
FREE LOVE LETTERS 
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