Letter to Albert

Dear Albert,

I haven’t written in so long it’s almost heartbreaking. In the absurdity of our days, I sense the passion we have thoroughly neglected, rise in a breath of fury, like the sun after days of rain and frosted winds.

I crave your ideas and your seldom restrained touch, the books we promised we’d read together and the gaze we claimed we wouldn’t exchange. I crave your mad eyes and your unkempt hair, the Mountain-man madness within your silence.

I have been missing my words. And naturally, the words meant to be directed at you. They had been solemnly awaiting this moment. I have not been fair to either of us. My next Jack London has been resting on the bookshelf, much like our affections.

Tell me what has plagued your thoughts and your body. Tell me what we haven’t managed to realize yet. Tell me if your longing is as deep and as pulsating as mine.

My heart beats for your words, are you aware? And in the wilderness of my blue, arctic nights, I feel how I have been masquerading my necessities. And though the sun has awakened to ignite our love once more, I am still unable to show my true feelings.

I remember how you required my words to be precise, like a mathematical formula or equation, or else you would fade into your dark and void ennui. However, I now understand why…

I haven’t written in so long, it’s inching towards the criminal. And in our hearts, we have witnessed the murder of our desires in full horror. I keep trying to figure out what expression you bear on your face now, what does your body look like in its lonely expectation. Are we still each other’s eternal love or has it all perished upon our unique miseries?

I have not as many words as I wish I had for this instant. I maybe wish I had had the ability to have written this sooner. But my mood and my heart are as wild as the seasons that keep crossing us relentlessly. I hope you may one day get back to me and not just be another edition gathering lonely dust, untouched.  

Read my words and mark them. Remember me for what I really am. I am the split spark I light whenever I purchase a new Faulkner, London or Baldwin. I am the aimless energy I devote to Camus or Sartre. I am the degenerate chaos that Thompson and Bukowski proudly wore on their chests. I am the wit of Twain or Shakespeare, as I am Tolstoy’s lip bitten under utter despair. I am Poe’s deceased bride and dear Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde.

One day, we’ll get to read together and we’ll casually trade a gaze or two. Remind each other of the words we weren’t able to put down on a paper. Maybe one of our favorite authors has found the just way to write of love, or lust or whatever it is we may be feeling at the moment.

Tell me how has life been treating you, my lovely. Tell me how many sugars you’ve been adding to your coffee or how many packs of cigarettes you’ve been smoking a week.

Although I am not in the place to make any demands, I want to read your words, as I can’t hear them for the time being. It’s sunny and warm once more.

With all my love,


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