Hello Love,
It is raining outside -- although infrequently, but beautifully. Enchantingly. It is raining within -- like a whiplash, an aching drumbeat melody. Insistently. You have reappeared like an ancient promise, demanding to be fulfilled. Resolutely. Pockets of balmy sunshine such are daughters and desires are all wet as they are wished in ink, dissolving in the clarity of your conspicuous fragrance. The ink is made of you, soft yet striking.
In that very ink I write to you. A letter to love they call it. Interestingly, not a love-letter. You do not reply, yet I write on. Of beginnings and in-between-ness-es and endings, all of which remain, and reveal a new me endlessly. Love, I am tired, of you. Much that I want to blossom in your affectionate embrace, I am torn. Your scathing attack has scattered me. The ink that runs in my veins pricks the soul, writing out horror stories. So I had to write one of love to you. To embalm a cure of faith on us.
A story of if-onlys. Clothed in your essence, moments would arrest themselves into an immortal solidarity with time. Freeze in the momentum of warmth. If-onlys are such spirited winged wishes. They pull you out of the cruel chaos of bitter nows and transport you into a land of beloved tomorrows. Fly with them and find your way to my heart. Harsh with facts, it loves helpings of fantasy. It could learn to love back with your lenient indulgence.
Come, age with me.
Should you choose to, I could too.
K.
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