A LOVE LETTER (TO WHICH I WILL NEVER SEND)

I think about you so vividly, it is as though you are with me, breathing sweet air down my neck. You summon and I surrender; I am solely and terribly yours. It is a painful thrusting of a blade through flesh to only write of you and never consume. Tell me, what is more painful than that which is not requited? The capacity of longing is much more than one can assume, one can bare. Though reviving, it’s corrosive to the soul if not maintained, a plague and I may not survive. Please, come to me. I am certain it would cease my sorrows, perhaps yours too. How I do want to hear of them, your voice: a bell, a pulse, its own perfect organism. Ease the disillusionment, I beg of you. Give me something real; some acknowledgement of this fever I am feeling for you. It is as though I have swallowed the sun; it sits in my stomach, a fire harboured inside of me, and it is you who keeps it alight. I do fear I may burn up entirely, so do please think of me from time to time. It really is that simple darling.

Writer's Note:

It is five o'clock in the morning and I seem to have entered into quite a state lately. I am entirely happy. Consumed. Preserving. It is a thrill to feel so intensely that I dare waste time on sleep. There is so much to feel! There is so much to feel! I dare you to feel it all with me. Write a love letter to someone, anyone for heaven's sake. Perhaps the man at the local shop who you buy your cigarettes off, or a dear friend, or the person whom you have never spoken to but you have fantasised having many, many children with. Perhaps it is true we all feel this desire more frequently than we display. It can be isolating so I challenge you to confront it. Look desire in the eye and write it a poem.