‍

‍

Dear Charlie,

‍

In the midst of the white frozen scene,

birds and their islands, and their footprints.

(They were good distractors and saviors.)

I don't have to scroll to read

the flow of light.

(and my flow in you)

This is perfect.

The magic hour today.

Sharp light  blows a fuse  inside me.

This quiet light will leave me soon.

I will forget this moment and light, and the light will forget me.

‍

Now it’s gone forever.

It would be unnatural

if I don't recall death when I look at the flow in you.

As I look into you, I feel alive, but also, I feel it rather odd

— the fact that I am alive.

My unanswered questions flow with you.

‍

Many things would have been scattered and forgotten.

My presence in the relationship with you was erased somehow.

I imagine everything slowly disappearing into your waters — like Ophelia's death.

I, space, light, sound, time, this madness,

and eventually

even yourself.

(But would our relationship be ephemeral?)

‍

You suddenly threw a question back to me.

I interpret it with my context and read it as a whole.

To my dear,

my dark, quiet paradise.

‍

‍