Dear L.,
I’ve decided I must have dreamed talking to you last night. Maybe my spirit was trying to remind me of what it craves and needs in order for it to create. Maybe it was a twisted shard of mind just going off on its own tangents. You got me worked up and excited about something… about an odd sense of openness and rawness. And part of me knew that what I felt was palpable… tangible… real. You set me in motion, as if I were a clock. A clock that kept ticking and ticking, though unpredictably. How can that be? Does it make sense? Because, then, I was thinking all night… thinking about things you’d said… and things you didn’t say.
And thinking… about what sits inside the silence… and waits… and grows.
What would Renoir make of it all? Another brush-stroked depiction of reality, or reality as he perceives it? How would Eliot form it into words? How would he describe me… describe you? How many stanzas would it take… to make… us?
What are you doing right now? What thoughts are brushing against your shoulders, asking to be allowed entry through your hair and beneath your skin? Will you get lost in thoughts and stay there all evening… all night? But… please don’t answer these questions. It would break the silence… so fluid… that we share. Instead, I will sit here and keep thinking… and keep talking to myself… to you.
Yet, I am at a loss for words, I who always seem to find the words to express just what it is I wish to say. Yes… I am… at a loss… utterly. I will keep my lips shut and feel the words inside my head. I will stay silent… and maybe you will come along and draw the words from inside me… where I guard them as one guards a secret… where they sit… waiting.
But… let me say this: You just might turn out to be the purest thing that has happened to me in a while. You are like honey. You smell of… earth… of… spice… of… human emotion. You smell like… original sin. You smell like something that exists inside the imagination… but can never be real.
But you are real.
And so.
I let go the thoughts. I let go the angst. I let go the trap.
I let go…
But you’ve got me caught… between your fingers. And you are molding me… ever so sweetly. And I am bending and folding in the warmth of your hands… my limbs filled with tingles… my heart filled with arrows… my eyes filled with dreams.
With devotion,
N.
