Albeit flawed,

Pennylace I

01/09/2016

10:47 PM

To Pennylace, if this ever reached you at your behest, and lest I did not suffer the same fate that led to Emmeria's demise:

The war broke out June the previous year, I remember.

Quite unusual that we only just passed beyond the threshold of an accidental acquaintance.

But my inner demons have already erupted into flames of desire.

Wanting once more to have a collaborator continue to satiate its bidding. 

Seemingly forgetting the last time it did have one, it ended up disappointed and more ravenous after its failure.

The war waged on until now.

The love I so purposefully cast into the void (that horribly engulfed Emmeria) came back to me, but without her—to my joy and disbelief.

Instead it was you who came with it.

We went inside the Void hands-held and we came out, and when we awoke you have forgotten—or so I thought.

Did you consider it then treasonous?

Or did you all this time disprove the notion of this inundation—this love?

Both are equally painful.

Why do you reject its bargaining?

It knows places where coyotes do not frequent much.

It bounds itself not of earthly creeds.

It makes perfect rhymes where poets resigned from writing and verses do not coexist.

It turns cacophonies into a celebration of harmony.

It corrects mistakes.

Sometimes I wish you caught me staring at you, gaping in wonder how that adorable, heavenly-touched face of yours happened to belong to my friend.

Sometimes I wish you could leap at me and burst into convulsions of cuddles and kisses.

Sometimes I wish you would stare back.

I keep this all to myself.

Make these delusions pay me a visit as ceremonial as my nightly releases—

for every passing second without your picturesque face conjured in my head would be a self-inflicted torture.

January, oh how puckish you are—I still could not fathom your motives, or sometimes your lack thereof.

You jinxed me first by taking Emmeria from me, now you wish to beguile me by this bath-fresh and perfume-coated divinity; even my demons are confused (anyway they do nothing but consummate my advances and devour and devour: I could care less).

I'm sorry, my friend, if my muses interrupt and make me forget the niceties—

I cannot reckon the possibility of sanity when you are around.

Forgive me, then, for I've yearned to objectify you in so long, but it has never occurred to me that I would be this mad.

But if loving you demands a little madness, I would give a ship full of it.

Love, I know I have kept all these urges with quite considerable secrecy—showing you hints that are way under superficial that until you are in possession of this letter it will not come into your knowing—

how when our sights cross I had wanted to stare longer but fell back in fear that you would look away;

how I long to brush my lips against your soft, surreal, and impossibly-blinding bright cheek;

how when we were together for twenty-two hours on that chilling Saturday I barely looked at you straight in the eyes when we talk, for I know my lips will betray me and be taunted to form a smile—not that I loath the thought of you seeing it—I only know it seemed ill-fated to you, and I wring my eyelids in the painful self-confession.

I pray to the gods to not take the light in my eyes—

for I do not want to part with you and not embed in my mind the lines and crooks of your breathtaking face.

You are my friend.

You have taken me even closer to home—you are home.

But if watching you from afar is at best the extent of my contention,

I dare not go further.

If somewhere along the lines of confession and secrecy I am ordered by fate to wholly cut off myself from you—

I dare not oppose.

Your confidant,

Altair