Love letter # 737

It is the people who claim to know you that have the least idea. Hypocrite that I am, I tell myself you understand this; that I sense it in your remove. Your covert fire.

We met outside the lines, away from the party. In our exile, we knew. Not like them. That.

Yet still they make boxes for us. Cells. Like the ones they dwell in. Upon our backs, the convenient tags; some applied with good intention, others from habit, but mostly the result of assumption. Proximity mistaken for closeness. Errors we all make.

Therefore, remain in mystery, my star. Be as a light in the distance. As a dance. Allow only guessing. Such that I may never claim you. Or be your gaoler.

Let us make no secret of this. Instead, be openly unknown. Maps opposed to places. Harbours without anchor chains. Sanctuary. Invitation. Allowance.

The limit of our understanding shall not be the limit of our love. Rather, let it flower in the garden unfenced, such that we may stumble upon it in wild bloom – and be surprised anew.