Love Letter (beginning)

Love letters have a way of greatly effecting the heart, for better or worse. And because of this, mine has been wrenched from my chest and thrust into the blistering embers of a dying fire. Firstly, to have received a letter written by her own hand, so delicately looped with the soft lines of her penmanship, raised my hope to the highest it could possibly expect to ascend. My name had been thought up in her mind before being formed by her hand, looked adoringly upon by her eyes, and spoken aloud by her mouth. Flutters of excitement burst within me before I had even unfolded the precise flaps of her disappointingly short letter. I was expecting the lines of the paper to be filled with loving words purging from a shamed heart after having hidden such feelings from me for so long. Alas, my eyes devoured the words on the page, and sooner would I have endeavored to forget the skill of reading than to have read her letter. Although it was a monumental encouragement for my own heart to speak out, it nevertheless revealed itself as a unforgivable folly soon enough. For only two days had passed after having received the letter before I discovered that my beloved Leona had hastened to resigned herself to the silence of death. My darling, beautiful, cherub confessed her love for me and stamped its stifling passion with her own blood as evidence of its domination over her. What she hadn't considered, to my eternal despair, is that I, too, had withheld my true feelings for her, and having done so, I have murdered, most mercilessly, my dear Leona. Her letter read as thus:

To what purpose is a mouth if it refuses to speak

When passion is knocking at the door of my lips?

Chambers so loyally guarded by silence

Will never see the evacuation of its coveted passions.

A surging rush of love, hate, or, perhaps most dominating, sorrow

Shall never breach the citadels of those chambers

Or clutch the lapels of a gentleman's thick, black coat

To shake his bones with a poignant confession.

Imagination must then satisfy the unknown;

It must fabricate such desired moments

And exhaust its most intricate inner workings

To shape that gentleman's unexpected countenance

Into those dramatic expressions of the above three:

A face stretched by a blissful smile of love

A face compressed into a scowl of irremittable hate,

Or a face drooping with the heaviness of an anchoring sorrow.

All unto which the confessor, the dreamer, the illusionist

Is the sole and direct receiver of such attentions.

Attentions that can all be classified as passionate.

For some, the reality of parting those lips

And letting slip those hesitant, soul preserving passions,

Is far too, excuse the redundancy, real.

The imagination is a brighter, more pleasant picture.

It permits the unlikely a chance at being not only probable

But vibrantly, unmistakably clear in one's mind.

Why, then, would someone as dismally alone as myself

Welcome the unrelenting abuse of that reality

When the beauty of .my imagination is a world unto myself,

Controlled by myself, and ultimately relished by myself.

Happiness, by individual standards, can only be reached

By the imagination of that individual upholding said standards,

And thus, by that fact, supreme happiness can only result from

The unfortunate reality that fuels the passions of my imagination.