a love letter

In a world that is dark and quiet and built only of two people (you and me), let us bring a single spark.

Let us take the knives of our words and our experiences, the trappings of our lives that have brought us on separate journeys to this shared point. Let us find the places where things are soft and stretched and open, so that the cut can be clean and easy and maybe (maybe) painless at first.

In time it will hurt. In time there will be rough edges, the sharpness of infection that spreads and stretches its spiderweb fingers until it touches the horizon and the wide spreading sky. Let us gather that up in our hands until they are overflowing, until we are so full that we cannot conceive of more, and yet it comes and it comes and it will not stop coming.

Let us take all of these things, and then let us put lights in this world. Not too many, not too bright; there are some things that are better and kinder when they cannot be seen clearly. In some places let us make the place as bright as the day, little places to show the things that we must: our honesty, our loves, our selves.

But let the light fade as it stretches. Let it gently shift into shadow, so that things are softened and shaded. We can adjust the angles if we need to later. Right now, let us just make sure that these places still exist. Both of these things are important. We need to pay attention to that.

Once that is done — once we are settled and we have built out this framework, this skeleton of touches and smiles and interaction, then we can create something more. This is where the skin is exposed; this is where we can slice through into muscle and bone and excavate what we can of what came before, so that new pieces may be laid into place. You will smile at me and I will call your name, and together we will bring together the materials we need to make something grand.

And it will be grand. It will be glorious; it will be the sort of thing that rises high and proud and will burn like phoenix fire, so that even if — when — if someday the heart goes dim and the flames die back, there will still be embers. There will be places that have burned so deeply that they are not even scars, but part of the landscape itself, carved in so deep that they cannot be separated. Maybe there was a time when these things were different, but after us, we will no longer be able to remember that.

We will build something that reaches straight into heaven. We will not stop building until the day we abruptly do, when everything begins to crumble under our feet and everything stable is suddenly ash and dust. Even then, sometimes, if you turn your face to the sky and close your eyes, you will be able to see it. The ghost will linger.

This is what we will make together, in this quiet soft place. There will be times for noise and for commotion — we cannot exist only in soft breaths and muffled heartbeats, but we cannot exist without these things either. I will put down a pillow and you will bring a blanket and our feet will touch and our hands will be distant, but it will still be a place of you and of me, it will be separate entities that have come together in a single identity.

I will sing for you, I will put my heart gently down in a silk-lined box and I will take yours and put it into my breast instead. We will manage this without anesthetic and it will not hurt except for in a fierce glad way. These are the first sparks of the empire that will be ours. (May it last a thousand years and more.)

Let us continue to build on it. I do not like the idea of coming apart. There is always the potential for things to fall apart; I have known that for years, and the knowledge is easy as my own heartbeat. (My heart is easy, but it always breaks.) Instead of that, I want to build as a means to creation, not destruction. My disasters are such quiet things, but I still remember each one.

I do not want this to be one.

Give me your hand. In this quiet dark place built for only two people (only you and me), let us make a miracle.

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