How I long to hear your voice again, to feel its lush, dulcet tones stroke my starving ears. The world hasn’t the right frequencies, you know? Hasn’t the right way of reaching in and turning my head, forcing me to attention and to intense interest and desire. No, haven’t found anything in it close enough to you, haven’t found anyone in it that can strike you from my memory, strike you from heart.
Where are you, now? Please, tell me, for I have grown lonesome.
I miss the thought of you more than perhaps I miss the actuality of you. No, please, don’t turn away, do not be insulted or offended, this means so very much for me to say it as I do. I, a person who lives in the anticipation of the moment, I give you all my anticipations—all my yearnings, all my considerations given over to you, I miss the thought of you, I miss being held over the fire, over the precipice of your impending presence; each day no longer presents to me a soul-curdling terror I must overcome to meet your lips with mine, they are now merely a series of gray, mundane moments, of equal little value for me, repetitious and slowly passing.
You made my world worth living in. I breathed and held in my breath, by stroke, by second, in deference to, and in the seeking of, you.
Do not blush! Do not draw away! I can sense that from you as you read these words, for this is too much, isn’t it? We are not children. We are not star-crossed lovers—this is no Shakespearean romance, no epic playact or theatrical amusement. No, it is not, we live in the real world, a world of serious things and of measures and calculations and determinations for the most suitable, the most efficient and effective, the most well-thought-out assignation and joining. No, the words I write to you are but nonsense in your ears; they are airy and foolishness.
Listen here to me, darling: I’d rather be a fool.
You make a fool of me. I adore you for it. I would be a fool a thousand times over if that is what it took to turn you away from the most efficient choices, your most well-calculated deeds—I would write you letters and poetry, send you flowers and trinkets, talk to you of lily pads and daffodils and milky, daft things, and care not that you or anyone else thinks me a fool as long as you continue to think of me, only you, and continue to blush when I whisper to you intimacies, continue to grow warm as I press kisses to your wrists and the hollows of your elbows, your knees, your throat, continue to give over your dreams to me as I give over mine to you.
Darling, I miss you, do come back to me from far off lands, do come back to me from this real world, give your voice to me for my ears are starving. They are starving, I am starving, for want of you.