The world is the romance that can’t exist between lovers. And the road to her stretches through desolate sands, where the horizon bleeds into the sky. In the end, I think she’s just a mirage. So must I wait in this hotel till my cup is filled to the brim, with the cool waters of optimism? It is barren, not even the echoes against this room will reach her ears. And these neon lights of wastefulness, that blare in the blackened night, red against the pure crystalized smut, do nothing in imitating the moon. It hides behind the mountains where she’s rumored to be, by the ancients and the whispered rhymed words you feed your children. Lullabies of deceit. And maybe I should trek back to the forest, where her shrine lays, moss painted on alabaster.
I’ve read her books. They’re divine, and my mind hungers for a more sufficient taste. A greater physical pleasure, fastened by her legs wrapping around my waist. The nomads that I see through the trees are twisted with brief glimpses of lust, so why are they satisfied? Why do I fall short, is my bridge more lengthy? Must I meet the crags of this canyon head on in fury and depression? I ask too many questions when she doesn’t want to feel the answers. And there is love in the future, my dear. Surely not through this existence, but maybe when our incarnated selves meet, the definition would have changed. And our glimpses as brothers and sisters, friends and lovers, of temptation and resentment will all have blended into a more alluring feeling. Something beyond what we have now, if you can perceive that.
Know this, I would whisper though the empty air, where thoughts can be mistaken for speech. Others may take claim in a band around my finger, but I will never know another soul such as yours. And so this road is just a lodestar, guiding my past lives, my present life and my future lives to a point where I may find paradise. Our feet dipped in the clear pools, the scent of your hair wafting in the still, like peaches in the rainy meadow.