I
cannot write, I apologize for that. I cannot string syllables into
pearl necklaces, I cannot weave words into velvet lace, I cannot paint
pictures with my tongue or illustrate ideas with my pen. You startle me,
wide-eyed and eager, hungry for the musings of the world and hungry for
you. Your spirit descends like such sweet sorrow of a morning gone by,
of a light laying itself to rest and I apologize again, my dear, that I
cannot hold on to this spirit. I love you in ancient script and I love
you in crumbling castles but I have left these in my wake, in
destruction and ashes paled from the passing of many winters. Forgive
me, my love, I do not know how to love without such ferocity.
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