Dear Love,
Is it true what opera's and little boy's say about you, that you are a "rebellious bird," a bird that "nobody can tame?" Is it true that Lillies symbolize the romantic sublimation of you? Is it true that you are a blind spot? Are you always warm? Or does this depend on the context? Have you witnessed a fair amount of defeat? Are you ever offended? Like when some refers to you as "left-overs?" Love, are you able to pan, unlike the human eye? Some people wonder if you are a dying language--does this amuse you, I wonder. I wonder so many things, love. Like what you call the one who finds out. I wonder if you are embarrased by your giggle. Or your bangs. I wonder if anyone feels you like a colony of strange living sea creatures, strewn all over the body, suctioned onto the skin, each one clamped on and slightly moving. I wonder if your golden birthday is on the 16th day. I wonder if it's possible for you to surpass yourself? I wonder if you ever miss me like Neruda does his Matilde--do you ever wait for me "like a lonely house" until I will see you again and let you live in me...and until then, do your "window's ache?"