And yet their number are not sufficient for my heart.
Last night I wrote to you. Words of your beauty. The names of my feelings, the days of my being and the strength of dwelling here now and never. The words are not gone now, though sacred and erased from my face. To describe my arc is too much to start short.
Why to resume again; when all was gone?
Where should I write again? And against.
Angst, bereft and none.
There was an unendable day within which I lie undone. With you.
Over our many joys the fissure of our fusion was cloaked in action, in activity, outwith our reality.
The cipher is gone, the incisions eroded, the markings removed, the letters erased, the words blanks, the sound no longer to be heard. Decoded.
When I halt, no matter what I witness, it will be beside you.