Letters

You, my dearest you… I love the romance of you, this psychedelic inebriation, your ambiguous nature, I love your stoic firmness, I love the fleeting tune that runs through my head when I see you.  I smile at how you are reticent when am forward. How the mention of my need to rest on your shoulder is met with quiet open arms or how you say the most staggering things with utmost careless elegance…

I love how straightforward it is – to love who you are without needing to possess you.

What I have here is not needy, it will not beg at your door for scraps of time or attention. It will not need to be fed to live, it is not desperate, pleading…its patient, its quiet, it keeps itself occupied with everything else.

My love is not sad, morose. It will not waste away in morbidness or what may come of a future…it is always a bit drunk, intoxicated.  Its simple, easy to understand, nothing complex here. I could sit with you and stare into emptiness with utmost faith that something beautiful may come of it…my love for you is bold to take your hand to my cheek and let it rest against my palm, but not so brazen to lick chocolate sauce off your fingers…

My love is gentle and knows the language of silence, it will leave you to your days of solitude…I will learn to read your lips and say nothing in response to the quiet.

My love, my dear one is shameless…when asked “who is this to you? What do you share?” I will answer “my beloved, I am a lover, I share my mind, my thoughts, my heart, my skin, my bed, my time on earth”

And anyway, it’s none of your business.