letter

for you, for another day that opens without me,
as it is hard for me, it is hard for you.
the slight suffering for waiting, somehow, unlike most pains,
does not get easier by the day, however, intensifies
whenever it takes hold of me and take a jab.
a sharp short intense ice pick.
it goes. then i wait for it. for the next prick.
like an old arrhythmia. a short skip.

with the joys you bring into my being, i cant complain but
am only a fragile human being. with you, completely vulnerable.
knowing that you hold all my being.
its entire content.

like anything else in life, i cant say for certain that this is new,
or perhaps, i would be better off to cast it as the old story.
as old as emotions go. the roots of every human being.

intelligence tells me that i will be there
soon as i could be
as much as i want to be
as you dare to hold me and make me yours
as you bare yourself with no reservation
as we can finally melt onto one another.
whirl of fire and air.

my heart tells me
that i would die
if i cant hold you feel you greedily claim you
die while living. like an apparition.
holding the both ends of my mind,
i am calling you. into the vast sky.
to depthless wintry night.
perhaps with the smallest salty stain.

romanticism is an old word, often ensnared with all kinds of extrinsic values.
but with its purest heart,
i dare to be a romantic.
a proper, all-bearing, embarrassingly naked romantic.
to become a longing
until the second
i can sink my body onto yours.

i love you
daringly and proudly
desperately