A Letter (II)

Ah, if only you understood your duty to be merely a dreamer’s dream. To be nothing but the censer in the cathedral of reveries. To trace your gestures like dreams, like mere windows opening on to new landscapes in your soul. To model your body so perfectly after dreams that no one could look at you without thinking of something else, since you would call to mind everything in the world but you, and to see you would be to hear music and to sleepwalk across vast landscapes with stagnant ponds, through hazy and quiet forests lost in the depths of ages past, where other invisible couples experience feelings we don’t have.

The only thing I’d ever want you for is to not have you. If I were dreaming and you appeared, I’d want to be able to imagine I was still dreaming, perhaps without even seeing you, though perhaps noticing that the moonlight had filled the stagnant ponds with ..... and that echoes of songs were suddenly rippling through the great inexplicit forest, lost in impossible ages.

My vision of you would be the bed where my soul would lie down and sleep, like a sick child, to dream once more of other skies. If you could talk? Yes, but only if hearing you wouldn’t be hearing you but seeing great bridges joining the two dark shores of a moonlit river leading to the ancient sea where the caravels are forever ours.

You smile? I hadn’t realized, but the stars were coursing my inner skies. You call me in my sleep. I hadn’t noticed, but from that far-flung boat whose dreamed sail was cutting the moonlight, I can see distant coasts.