Dear Beloved,

Today I wish you join me,
my love,
your hand flowing around mine
on the first day of summer.
I know how much you like
the speckled feeling of summer’s warmth
licking across your exposed skin.
Summer’s breeze
like a wink of a flame
reminds me of the time
we lay by the hissing fireplace
through winter’s callous snow storms.
The nights stretch like a plague
across vines of stars
twisting amongst the moon.

Here we pretend we’re basking
on creamy beaches
that bend for miles,
the aroma of salt lining our lips,
and the waves of the sun
bouncing off our shades.
Oh,
how silly a thing
to pretend in sleeping bags
by a charcoaling fireplace
with a brewing storm outside.

Even still scars ripple through me
as I remember how alone
I am.

So today I tossed a coin
in a granting fountain
and wished you could witness summer,
but the day rolled past the horizon
and you remain ensnared
in the same retched bed.
Your immobile body
must ache for a taste of the sun,
I’m sure of it.
Every day I’m sure you hear me
whisper countless words so you may break
from your coma.

But I wish it every day
as the moon rolls into the twilight
and smiles through your opened window.
And I wish every day
as the sun blasts through
it’ll steer you back to the surface.
Here,
my body craves for you.

Every day I write to you,
believing my letters somehow drift
to a mysterious place
that postmen can’t go.
I imagine you’ll open them.
I imagine the way your face smiles,
from your silk lips,
to the arch of your cheeks
where every freckle
comes to life.
It reaches your mocha sweet eyes—
full of love, bliss, and a compassion for life
I’ve never seen before…
or since.

Four years have faded
like a warrior’s sword—
once like lightening is now
nothing but the memory
from when your eyes sealed shut—
no elaborate words, or secret phrases
can unlock you.

And so today
they decided the best thing
for a mute bird
is to set them free—
they believe
you’ll sing
that way.
I don’t know how anyone
can pull the plug of life.
Or why life is attached
to the wall,
like it has become
for you.

I suppose it feels like enslavement—
the tarnished rigid chains
consuming your flesh
as the days slither by
venom pulsing through you—
I wish I could have saved you
but tainted time spins
where hands can’t stop them.

This is my last letter
to you.
I know you were never fond
of Romeo and Juliet.
But with the years
I’ve often contemplated
the idea.
I dread that when you read this,
there will be the first trace
of mourning tears upon the pages—
like patches of stories
left untold to a reader.
But I’ll know them.

You’ve always said
I tuck my emotion
in a keyless chest.
This,
I can no longer hide.
They say when you love someone
as much as I love you,
you’ll feel the very moment
they take their last breath.
I hope you don’t
feel mine.

I’m sorry,
my love,
but I’ll think I’ll see you again,
if heaven exist and God
is merciful for my actions.
I must part with you
for the moment but
William Shakespeare says it best:
“Good night,
Good night!
Parting is such sweet
sorrow,
that I shall say good night
till it be
morrow.”

Your love,
Forever