The written loom

My Talitha,

I feel you most in my silences..

When my hands touch the air without knowing why..
When I walk with no destination, and something grazes me, between my shoulder and my breath..

I am no longer afraid of losing my love.. If I must lose it to see it anew, to hold it clean, untamed, and bare, then let me lose it every day..
As long as I can find it again, where no one thinks to look for me..

I received your letter before I read it.. 
Before the words met paper, you were already inside me..
And now, I know what I must do..

What we never spoke, I write it now..
And if no eyes can read it, let the lake take it, as it takes sounds, as it takes the secrets of lovers who forgot their names, but remembered the silence..

This is no reply..

It is surrender..

I write in the language we made of pebbles and legends..
A language known to no one..
Only the Lady understands it, and returns it to you as a dream, or a touch at the base of your neck..

When you read this, it will no longer be a letter.. It will be a pulse.. A gaze without eyes.. 
It will be me, the one who stayed, but never let you go..

And if it never reaches you, if it sinks in mud .. or vanishes among the irises, still, I write..
Because sometimes, love must be spoken not to be heard, but simply to exist..

Now, I fall silent.. And I cast this letter into the mercy of magic.. 
And I let you return, however you wish, if you wish at all..

Always the one you once saw, beyond the mirror..
P.

He does not wait for an answer.
He only waits for the silence to move.

Next: A second letter. This time, not made of memory — but of pain.
The kind that speaks even when no one is listening.