I have seen that beautiful life. Over these ten days, I have woken alongside the miracle of you, watched the light linger a little longer on the horizon of your back, held the fruit you shared with me like a lover’s chin, laughed at the jokes I couldn’t always understand but still found funny, tumbled in your body as though I might never have it again, did nothing at all in your thick, honey arms, gazed at the sky of your eyes and the earth of your feet and I loved and I loved and I loved the small, warm universe I had found.
It is obvious: this quiet life is quite a life too. But much of this comfort is punctuated by a reality that all happy things are wed to disaster. Outside, death lurks. There are people gasping apocalyptic air. My personal concerns slosh around in the deep waters of my leaking heart. And I worry that we will learn nothing, that we will go back to complacent normal after all of this, a normal which created this, a normal which will create worse than this, too.
I do not want this outcome, dear. I do not want to be scared, to continue to remain exasperated, to take small, startled breaths and announce that yes yes, this is it, a life. I do not wish to be consumed by argument, by the bold betrayals, by regret, by the feeling that I could’ve been something more if only I was something more in the first place. I do not want to wait until I am old. I do not want to stay here and ask: should I tiptoe into love? Should I sink?
Being here has shown that I have spent my life to spend my life. Tedium consumes. There is this to work on and of course that too and I have probably put these things off for too long.
More is at stake. Everything is.
Nowadays, it is an act of defiance to simply be. There is nothing bolder on such glum mornings and tattered nights than to just live lightly.
You are that light. You are that life. With you, though humanity is grounded in a total sickness, I can feel all of what humans have made and wanted. I see the dangerous delight, the fields of flowers that spread pollen across the world, the lemonade that can summon summers, the fact that spirits exist and they are made of our laughs, or at least, our careful smiles.
Each morning, I cannot help myself from grinning at this wonderfulness, your wonderfulness. For in this historical time, I am learning how to write that history of love, to fill the blank pages with nothing more than holding you close in silence.
Yours yours yours,
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