… lovers, dreams, and pride: things I have misplaced.

My darling lover lost, 

Today I wanted you to know that even though the road less taken is one most trod, the familiar path that has become our past, still manages to surprise me. That I have become a warlock, clothed in bespoke rags and daringly enchanting, used to trading souls instead of my own. Forcefully I have borrowed the wings of angels and given them back with contempt and frayed at the edges: a poor fit. And yes, like the statue of Icarus that reminds me of you, I had no sense and I didn’t much like falling back to earth when you tired of me. Since you I have had lovers by the dozen, always craving the same feeling of you inside and although some were poets and others will remain faceless and nameless some became faithless boyfriends that were left behind in the end. Searching for your words from shadowed parts of my enlightened soul I have written painfully evocative letters from across Europe on the back of a thousand postcards. But this is the last letter I will write, for today on your birthday I am giving you something I know you want: 

Your freedom from the old-school ties that used to bind my wrists to your bedposts as you tried to fill me with your emptiness.  And here, from the summers’ shade I sit relishing your impotent displeasure of knowing that somewhere out there I am waiting not for you but the ghost of who you once were to me. Although I long ago kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye, I never forgot their sweet fragrance that suffocated all reason and logic that brought you to my gates. And as Persepolis burned at the hand of Alexander, the fires tore down the walls of my pride and became the anger that fuelled the hate not of vengeance but a scorned love. ‘G’d is in the details’, an old priest like your father said to me on Skorpia and I wanted a reason so badly, that for months I believed in him, transfixed by small miracles and clutching my golden crucifix on my knees by the empty bed. But your ghost never abandoned me like the old friends who gave no reasons. Instead the nights slip slowly and purposefully across the sky towards an empty bed. In the mirror, though my eyes are not my own, my soul has slowly seeped away. But this is the last letter I will write, for today on your birthday I am giving you something I know I need:  

The power of goodbye. 

I remain, yours as always 

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