Love Letters

Do people still write love letters these days? The book I am reading is inspiring me to write a series of love letters. I was thinking about that last night. How should I embrace such daunting task? Should I start by chapters? By age? Should I cite the names of the people I have loved? How about those who have loved me? Should I keep the letters separate? Should I exhaust my subjects?

Last night could have served as a starting point. I was awake, I was tossing and turning in bed, I was desperate. I was in love with my book and I was thinking that I was finally able to feel all the pain that there is to feel. I haven't missed you that much before. I don't know why this time I let myself be this out of control ship. I am sinking in the memories of us. What for? If I can't stand the idea of having you next to me anymore. I can't even stand the idea of having loved you. I ponder: was I really in love with you? Aside from the fun of having your company and from the dreams we had, what was our bond?

All of a sudden, I think of her. Her eyes and that Mona Lisa like smile of hers. Her pale skin and her particular way of flirting with life. Was she real? Were the things she told me fiction or reality? If she didn't exist, as I now speculate, how come those flowers are dying on my dining room table? Who brought them?

Who brought the memories of your kisses and the embraces until late at night? Who poured me a glass of wine and licked my lips until there was no more wine left and all the sugars were inside of our mouths as survivors of a battle between two warriors who know that to love is to fight? There was friction between us. Your power versus my sweetness. Your distance versus my need to belong. Your assertiveness against my desire to love unconditionally.

Who smelled like a brand new house and yet was a familiar scent? Because that's what you were to me: the ambiguity of the new and the old. Who had the most beautiful hands that where insisting on coming to me? Who had that aloof blase-like attitude that was a magnet pulling me towards. On one hand, I smiled at that. I saw it as a charming quality. On the other hand, I knew you weren't meant to be mine for the exact same reasons.

I tried to love you with an open hand. I now endure the certainty of having lost you. Of having let you depart. There was no way to keep you. If love demands the death of freedom, I'd rather see you in the wild. Flourishing, growing, ascending. For I know that only freedom can make you grow. Love can redeem. Love can melt. But eventually we would refrain from our freedoms. And your wild eyes would get tired of our routines, and even my body and my mind once novelties, would get old to you and to the world of loving. And our kisses would be less meaningful.

I'd rather have memories of you. Memories of a burning night. I can only hope for what has hapenned to us. As you departed, I wished I had had that impulse that takes to beg for a loved one to stay. However, I couldn't take a chance.

Would our freedom die a slow death? I can only love the wild in you.