Dear friend of my heart,
There is a chair I once came to occupy; a chair of silence, of reflection, of immersion, of thought, a chair of meditation, and I often wrote to you sitting on that chair. I wrote of beauty. I wrote of many joys of sacred seclusion. I wrote of melancholy evenings and awoken mornings whence came the deeper of my spiritual inclinations; for only twice am I a poet, walking naked into the spring sodden field of love, and in the decaying romance of the leaves of fall… only twice am I a poet, washed joyful by keen dewdrops of the rising dawn, and soaked mournful by the dull yellow of sinking dusk. Only these twice, my innocent lover, once in the joyous glow in thy wonderous eyes, and once in the shadow of thy thoughtful brow. In cold winters I close my eyes for the spring of your youth to set my heart racing and the exhilaration of our impermanence to sink me in a dark ocean of fantastical visions of you and of the impending storm of us.
That is the chair I now return to as a void in my heart grows. I wish to gaze deeper into shadows and allow the yet dormant seeds in the fields of my perpetual dusk to spurt into the most mysterious garden of poetry, joy, and pain. In this garden, I shall go to sleep and dream of the world, dream of you, and wake up to find the most exquisite flowers blossoming out of the immense and nameless colors that explode in me when you make a poet out of me, each one of those twice.
Yours in the evening,