Moonbows and Dripping Wax
I do not need to write your name to see it stained into my hands, I do not need to say your name to feel the syllables saturated against my tongue, I do not need to call you upon memory to hold your presence dear.
Oh how I think of you when I peer at the caelum above, thinking of your smile etched into the moon's craters.
Worry seems to be the reigning thought for the two of us dearest, and I fear that caligo will overwhelm us if we are not to be careful.
Darling, privilege does not make me worry for you any less. And some may call me the scum of the earth or even the poorest of the poor or even a morosis, but I am blessed with the vim of holding dear a seraphic being such as yourself.
I wish to keep your mind in a state of felicity when the thought of me comes to mind, but alas lying to you tears me apart inside. The poorhouses have begun to fill, with the influx of poverty and exclusion of proper housing. I fear that perhaps I'll be forced to find a new means of residence soon--if I am not kicked to the streets first.
These days have been filled with such alamort, with me taking on another job as a lamplighter. During the early mornings to midday, I clean the chimneys of the fortunate. And by dusk and nightfall, I spend time lighting lamps that shine with the eternal glow of your rantipole spirit. My hands have been covered in soot and ash for so long, I fear I do not know where I begin under the layers of agathokakological.
There has been little time to write darling, with the days passing by so rapidly. Every twilight I spend constructing letters to you by the ways of dripping candlewax and penning the emotions of bliss and yonderly.
During my times here, I have never faced such atrocities and discouragement. I have learned that hope is such a trivial thing. And it's only with the thought of you that I find such meaning in it and dare to sominate again.
Do not fret over my conditions though, for they keep me tied to my rationalities, and they allow me the thought of woolgathering when sleep gently kisses my eyelids shut.
Under the fading candlelight do I dare to say your name, my dearest Lila, because it is then that I can believe in the cosompoietic bliss that is us. My leal for you burns bright, but the vitality of it has begun to fade with the tearing apart of my being. I wished to keep you apart from the darkness that terrorizes me, but you and I, we are connected by our souls, and I know that it will only cause more pain if I keep you away from this part of me.
With each passing day, I have begun to feel that our childhood fantasies of paracosm have ceased to exist. For how can we afford a living when I can barely support myself, how can I grant your wishes true? Are we to be reduced to those ashes of a burning flame? Because darling, I hate to say it, but the reality is dampening the colors of our world, and I do not want to drag you down to poverty with me.
And my dearest Lila--
How do I remember the memory of Josephine etched into my blood, when I have been molded into this man of James? I cannot differentiate between the two, and I have become muddled between them--because who am I if I am not your darling Josephine? And who am I if I am not the metanoia of James? I have been reduced to scintilla and I cannot begin to pick apart who I have become.
I have never loved you more than by the solace of a vanishing candlelight.