Lament of the Sad Cat

When letters meant for release after your death can never reach her now

My Dearest Persian Angel,

If there was one thing I could say for certain it is this: the amount of pages I’ve written for you, about you, honoring you, it would all stagger you. It unnerves even me so it all remained a deathly secret adoration. Never were you meant to see these papers. At least, not until I passed away.

Emily Dickinson: “He really loved you babe.”

I call you my Emily Dickinson Project because these words that follow were not to be shared until after my death. That was the plan.

My All, My Other Half, I want to say how unspeakably beautiful you were and are to me, and how looking back, the mere longing for you in this unrequited love, this impossible dream… it kept me alive longer than I should have been.

But now you are gone, and gone before me.

I don’t know where you are, if you are alive or dead. I just know you are gone. I love you, in my gentle, quiet lunacy, and you always knew, I think… to one extent or another.

And I swear to you, if there was light in me, all my light was you. I know that now, because there is a vast darkness around me, and I cannot see my hand before my face where once there was a  moon light in your eyes to guide me.

My love I don’t know where you are. There is no address to write to. In the silence that is my sentence I mourn as one at a grave, speaking to stone, grieving the loss of one perhaps still living, while I myself am dead. And so I lay my flowers upon the last table where we shared some tea and coffee, fight back the tears, then walk sadly away.

The way a child’s smile could light up a room, yours could light up the darkest day. Your brown, almond eyes had an exotic beauty with no mercy, they owned you, you could never look away.

You were my guiding hand, but now, there is but a phantom limb that aches and tortures endlessly in its refusal to acknowledge it is gone….

In this cruel madness, how terrifying it is for me to show you that what would be kindling, or a pilot light in the heart of the rational, it is in me an all-consuming supernova; a bursting star expelling everything I am, and everything I am is you.

So I tried moving on, oh Lord, I truly have; but I could no more walk away from you than walk away from my own soul.

Immortal beauty I do love you now, always did…

and with what pieces still remain,

I am forever yours, as King Cyrus to Cassandane,

Cyrus the Stray

 

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Methinks I am a conspiracy theorist. Art thou? Thou block, thou stone, thou worse than senseless thing, for whilst thou slept didst this become a badge of honor. Informed dissent shall always prevail, wherefore art thou worthy, or art thou this unwholesome fool in the group conformity experiment herein?