To my honey B,
About my last postscript that mentioned gossip, it lingers around like an angry wasp, it swarms through my head, but I must confess, the rumour is true, and it’s about me and a truer love than thee I must profess:
Poetry is my first love above all, and I’m very sorry, dear, to put you second to anything. My love for you is a study; it’s an art, it’s omnipresent. With thoughts of you, while we’re apart dancing, romanced up in the sky, though not too far, the ballet is always close by like a butterfly fluttering by.
I find myself obsessively, doting on you tenderly. I see your precious eyes glowing like a lightning bug at night, and I sometimes wish to catch that beauty in a jar and bathe in my delight.
A bath I’d bathe in honey and milk, then wrap myself in spider silk. Though not too close I will yet come to protect you from the trap of predators that wove a web for women like you to capture them like sap preserves insects. I shall, too, keep you preserved but not just yet and not like that; after I learn how to love you and keep you safe from those predators and calyptra and cap.
Of Botany, I wish I knew so I could give a flowering garden to you. You’d kiss your rose and, O! She goes! At sunrise to dance among the green. And nourish each poesy that you begift to me, such a fragrant bouquet. I’ll be so gay with such a morn, no longer waking up alone and most forlorn.
Grateful for your generous gifts, the posies, the fruits, the ones of the vine that vintage, that draught. What a season for wine! What a season indeed but for each of them not just summer but the remaining three. For now, I have you and, you, have me. Never alone with that vintage, three. The devil has no business here. Among us, me, mon chéri, belovèd ami, and that I assure you, my love and my dear. The allusion to nursery rhyme is just fine, be rid of him for he knows he’s no place here.
Your morning routine, you rehearse all the time like a songwriter of theatre conducts each of his horns crescendo that grows bigger and fuller, so brazen, sublime. You too are a maestro, without any strife though, you build bored and dull and bland, you dig your heels in to work and can play the role of a string quartet as well as you strike up the band.
What a thrill it has been to meet you again in this life. I almost prayed to some man in the clouds that I’d at least be allowed to find you once more if in some strange haven without other men; I’d be patiently waiting prepared to be lost, fooled, and taken. Prepared to trick God I’d compose myself tactfully and, just like a raven, lurk o’er God’s body and almost be feign when…
Lo, behold! My goddess has come! I can now doff my crow. God promised me her but although he came through I can not pay my due. For before you I am free from Heavenly bliss. I need no such Lord when a creature such as yourself would give me a kiss or merely exist.
But still, too soon. Our lips were not meant to meet now. Under a still, pallid moon, after dreary subsides entirely this time. You’ll rear those big eyes, and we’ll both put our worries away and aside.
Abandon such dread! And look towards the East, the sun will then rise, and we’ll begin again newly, so fresh yet more wise. I’ve never thought of that God with near as much faith, such trust, and unbridled surmise.
I must go now. The lights are too dim and strain my eyes writing so much of my whim. Good night from the past as the postmark will say. You’ll hear my voice in the future if only by one day. I’ll write you again soon and express much more thought even by the light of the moon. I hope you sleep soundly tonight. I know that I will after releasing my heart so late into the night with nothing but longing, longing and delight.
Stephen J. Dawson Jr.