Love letter # 1001

And now … I am awake, surfacing in this breathtaking vastness, in this desert of the self. I dwell on an island … infinite strandling, and everywhere I look I see the impassive, impersonal ocean, the matter of fact space that divides us … and the years creak like an old boat.

That little moment that never was, that we never held in our arms, its distance from here is not even measurable in time. We must be two strange fools to have acted like this, my love. What hideous complexity kept us from simple tenderness? What hubris from the gorgeously flawed love of sinners? A famous saint once said that complete abstinence was easier than perfect moderation. Was that it? Did we sense that this fire would make ashes of everything?


{This letter is an excerpt from a play called The Angel Of Loneliness.]