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| Another Love Note | 1:57am friday, 11th october |
(Once again, this is to my true love, whom I have never seen, not even in my dreams. Here is my last.)
When God breathed upon clay to make you live, I emerged from my cocoon at the sound of your first sigh.
My name is a verb lost in stupid sentences when you are not the noun, an adjective describing nothing.
The moon is only loneliness if it is not reflected in your eyes.
Where in my dreaming did the thought of you cross? I think roses grow there, now.
No, I cannot think that you ever were not here: the entire world is more imaginary than the voice of your whisper.
In these things that I speak of to you, my heart at least knows what I mean. I think yours does, too.
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