It's
better that you don't answer; I will witness you as loved,
religiously, with passion pure as blue flame. I am sitting by your
bedside reading your dream from a book written by a wild man in the
woods, birds in his hair, haunted by absent perfume. “When I
remember what to say," the book begins, "you will turn and
return to your senses, turn to find me standing in your shadow,
chanting your true name like a ring around your finger. At a depth as
rich as dark chocolate, a blind fish-mouth opens and a blood-curdling
silence fills in the "why" to make all that "what",
"when" and "how" fit together as a vision you are
not having but deeply, blindly are. I am leaving. the closing of the
door is one more tooth falling out of the head you dream with, out of
the comb you pull through your hair, out of the night that, once you
shut a final door, goes on forever."
