the Flower & the Bee

photo by Diletta Shakespeare

My cherished inamorato,

this is not another letter that will flood the imaginative box of previous letters I have sent you. All I wanted to say is that I have come to the conclusion that, to you, I am like the constant ticking of a clock whose batteries won't die when all you want is to close your eyes and listen to nothing but your own heartbeat.

Love is a burden, mine is the Love, I am your burden. This note is a confession, an acidic reminder of my ongoing affection that invades your life repeatedly and troubles mine, in an excruciatingly arousing way, again and again. You are the Flower and I am the Bee.

You are a fully bloomed and delicate Flower with its petals stretched as if trying to embrace the heavenly infinite. And there among your petals, there is me; the Bee snuggling up to the warmth of your arms in an attempt to protect itself from the cold.

Love is tiresome, love repeats itself, love is cruel and love is tender. I am not who I am when I think of you. I am who I aspire to be. You are the Prairie and I am the Sun, forever illuminating you with my Love but warming you too much with my persistence.

I know you crave for the Moon to engulf you in her cool comfort and sing you to sleep until you dream of a world where I am not. I am bitterly sorry for intervening and plaguing your life with unwanted affection. I wish you a world with no ticking, no unwanted warmth, no bee finding shelter in your core.

Lovely one, I am ever your servant. You are the subtle voice that whispers to me silently, lingers between my thighs and holds me captive into its sound. I am a wretched and erratic void whose pores exude pain and an incurable yearning for satiety. A broken toy and a dusty phonograph.

This volcano that resides in my weary chest, is about to erupt while you slumber in peaceful quiet. I am unable to sleep for you keep dragging me to a state of awake dreaming that keeps reality away from me. Because in this state, I am always the Bee hunting the treasures dwelling among your petals.

Love is not love if it does not make you want to scream out of despair. It is not love if it is sane. Love is not love if you are not the one I love. My flaming, frail body wishes to crawl on yours and remain still, shaking, suspended above the realm of beauty that is you.

So, farewell, dearest Flower. I will meet you in my daydream, in the ill-written letter you will never touch with your fingers, under the Tree that is our nest of Love and Sin, inside the abyss, all around the spectre of Fantasy. You are the Wind that keeps me moving.

With ceaseless enamourment.

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