I write letters to you. ..
and every night I place them under my pillow..
and at dawn i slip my hand under the pillow and find them gone.. they take flight at night.. in the darknest moment, they rise above the pain, the anguish of separation; the physical distance between lovers, and they dissolve in that ache.. perhaps they leave at their own accord.. or maybe I send them..or … maybe you call out to me and they mix with the damp air and lift themselves to the breeze and journey back to you..where they belong..
words have a power beyond ones understanding..they come from a domain where at the beginning they were not even words..articulation is not a crutch they need ..they live in the domain of silence; the abode of emotion; and when they spill out in tears they have an urgency for expression which they find in words… thus, the letters may as well be a pivot around which my world revolves.. I wonder: did I ever write those letters.. or did I just think them and sent them to you.. thus..did you even receive a word from me.. the question remains immaculately unanswered in its complex nature of connection that exists between