What I am trying to say is, if I had ever known love, it was for you. That is why I keep thinking only of the horrible hurt I cradled in my heart all those months through. I don’t think of the summers of aching from when I was fifteen or the still sunshod afternoons of last December,when I think of having loved.
So here I am writing about you again. I would not want to quote Neruda at you if I saw you now, believe me, I remember always having thought your features comically misaligned upon your face.But there has never been anything I could romanticise with the same ease as I can absence, so here I am.
Because that is just what it is. I have fallen for absence, for impossibility for distance, and even as I do not long for you anymore,that is what i continue to do. In writing to you, I am keeping alive the only thing I ever loved- I am keeping alive a mirage. For surely it was only the dusk playing tricks upon my eyes when I fancied I saw the softness in yours?
But that was a long time ago-a long time back when I would perch upon the balcony and watch the sunshine ruffle through the leaves with all the wonder of a child first seeing light. Everything that was dazzling and glorious then has simmered into banality now. A winter has passed and a summer and a winter …and here we are.
I don’t know if you know about the acute horror with which the world is collapsing around us, around all we once swore we held dear,and I cannot do much but write to you. Write to me. If, once, I had so much love to hold in my heart, surely our lives are not quite as redundant, our aches not quite as futile, as we have come to believe?
This is lovely – I really appreciate your writing.
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thank you so much !
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