Words expressing capably how I feel do not come easily.  Ay, rare is the time when I am at a loss for opinion or articulation, yet that selfsame garrulity laments its own inability to communicate precisely to you what is written upon my heart’s heart.

Be there no words for such utterances?  Is my spirit unable to sing to you in these pages the essence of what is within?  Woe is the man for whom naught but the reality of life be cast upon his lips.  I strive lest I be that man, yet I fear words may prove inadequate for what speaks unspoken between us.

Yearnings for the poetic caress of my tongue’s calling beseech me for you.  Might I tell you how I feel?  Does within me lie reason capable of translating spirit to thought?  I fear, as does tell me my soul, that I contain no such comprehension.

Worlds within rest not in their journeys about spirits deep, and in their travels they wish to pronounce for ears of passion the behest of their own hearts.  These hearts within me are the stones cast at birth melted so ably by your presence.

Saying that which I burn to tell you seems only to feebly drop words at your feet like leaves around the oak tree.  Your branches reach out and I wish them to contain the whole of my depth offered clumsily in writ.  What forlorn desolation I seem to offer, my words cheaply reduced to foliage cast upon the ground, as munificent emotion is lost to language too simple and inadequate.

Proved in the spaces between me rests undying hope that my voice find expression in bodies writhing overmuch, silent whispers betwixt your soul and mine, understanding only found inside recesses deep in our shallows.  Tendering aught but all cheapens our reality.  Would that my all find its voice in my mouth, empowered by that devilish device to say the unsayable.

I fear such hopes misplaced and misguided.  No words can express after a heartvoice’s passions.  Who was I to believe me capable of such?  We humans in our arrogance wish it to be, but wishing for a thing does not make it so.

Dare I appeal to your self that it might hear my own self?  Alacrity notwithstanding, I could wish for no greater thing.  Even I in wounded flight of composition cannot answer your warming touch with mere words.  How flimsy a steadfast love must be were such eager inconsequence thrust upon it as though it might answer to the mind the heart’s unanswerable.

Never alone, I find strong weakness in my weak strength founded upon my lover’s love and loved lovers.  Therein exists the core of us, and it stands unaccompanied among those before and those after.

I swim in the oceans between us and touch the shores of our souls.  There can be no other way to love.  I dedicate not myself to you, yet how else can it be?  Promises for days to come pass between us, oaths of the old souls daring to feed upon the surface and in the depths of life, and continue I to search fruitlessly for that expression capable of penning within this letter the burning fire I share with you and of you.

My thankful heart wishes only to disclose herein its true nature.  Why fails it my mind?  Sitting but inches before the spindling wheel of words, I weave not a tapestry of emotive gesture.  Instead, I stitch the stumbling triviality of wanton colloquialism.

Share with you this I know I must.  Could failed tidings be more apparent in any other context?  I began this transcription with heartfelt aspirations of offering to you what I feel.  Admitting failure in that regard seems unnecessary in light of what now rests before your eyes.  Can you find salutary disappointment here?

Dashed upon reality in these words, I reread this letter before sealing it within its envelope hoping to find redeeming value in what spilled from mind to paper.  Sorrow haunts me when I lock away in its paper cage the result of heart endeavors.  Why fails me thus my writing in communicating that sacred text deep within?

In your presence there is no such obfuscation.  You hear me before I have yet to speak.  You understand the meaning my body imparts to your body.  It vexes me that such impassioned words unspoken battle against expression in speech.  Whether written or verbalized, no greater mystery can be revealed save the story told betwixt the flesh and spirit of us two.

Wishing though it be different, I cannot offer in this missive what I intended to sacrifice one heart to the other, although I wish only that you again provide me opportunity to demonstrate in soulflesh passion that which you know merely by looking through the spirit window of my self.  Cheapened though the experience may be once displayed in such meager terms, I wish only to know your spirit again and again, as we have known our kindred spirits so many times before.

Let my inconsequential chorus fall at your feet and provide us the restful soft of groundcover upon which we might lay one with the other, bodies intertwined overly in fleshful dances, muted wailings silently screaming in echoes with the space not between us, and let my soul’s flesh caress your flesh’s soul.

Defined in moments unimaginable and pleasures both spiritual and carnal are the volumes written on my heart.  They find their collective voice in those places only we two may know.  Whence come desires manifested if not the joining of two with each other?  They dare not present in simple words where meaning fails so often to breach time and space, and the betrayal of truth need only a misreading.

I love you.  There exists no clearer or greater manifestation of words capable of saying what cannot be said.  Yet even three words stumble over meaning they cannot convey.

Let my thankful heart offer itself at the altar of your being.  Neither financial wealth nor intellectual prowess is capable of offering a significantly greater sacrifice, and all the while mine hopes birthed within these pages are unsatisfying of the need to which they were committed.

The eloquence necessary to somehow write the unwritable and say the unsayable escaped me.  My intentions leaped into words insufficient unto the task, becoming a flowing essay of unfulfilled wants to say a thing.  It is charlatan reasoning of the unreasonable so that it might somehow take form in prose incapable of such expression.

Again, I love you.  Need I say more?

Upon your brow I shall once again plant eternal kisses, resting my soul upon yours in infinitely tiny gestures too large to define, and lips upon lips shall convey unknowable things with our breathing one into the other.

Grant to me audience yet again that I may stand upon the stage of your life and sing to you that song which only you and I may hear.  Allow me to strum upon your heartstrings the rhythmic music orchestrated within passion’s relentless grasp.

In silence you shall hear me and I you.  Touched upon your flesh my soul’s grasp takes hold and I find all being.  Lend me once again your true self.

In timespaces unreachable to all others, I will tell you that which this letter could not communicate.  There, alone together with everyone else, we will live in universes of life and on worlds innumerable.  There I will speak my heart’s secrets to you and I shall listen to yours.  My soulflesh will embrace your soulflesh and our spirits will entwine in great inseparable links.

This only can I provide because all else is lacking.