Dear Love of Mine,
I don’t know how to begin this letter but I suppose I should state my love in tandem. In tangents and long winded, exhausted prose. In hyperbolic tones, in painfully metaphorical metaphors.
I suppose I should begin there.
I, like a point in space - a broken piece of a dead planet, lost and without any particular purpose - and love, like constriction and distinction and horrific determination, and you, like another point in space - a bursting nebula whose light never quite reaches the first point.
Only three parties involved in the whole picture and you know how it goes; one will die, one will suffer, and the other will never be able to make the two meet.
Which is which, I’m afraid I can’t specify. It’s a love letter, you see. Let’s not get into the linguistics.
Dear Love of Mine, it feels as though we could be cosmic beings with centuries to spare and still never figure it out. Love, that is. Even with immortality at our feet, we would wonder how love can be so consuming and yet dwindle gracelessly under the shadow of doubt, possession, anger, or its own weight.
You know what they say, too much of a good thing is a bad thing and the thing is that the good thing is you and the good thing is poison and all the warning labels are clear and bright red but the thing is that I am helpless. Hopeless, you see.
If the good thing is you then I’m afraid they have the saying all wrong.
Or, perhaps, this is simply a love letter. I must play with reality and logic and structure and spread them so thin that they look beautiful. Harmless.
Dear Love of Mine, please write back.