This letter I write to you, in the praise of your being. You’ve been more patient than the virtue itself, listening silently -the woeful ballads -the hopeless delights, I bring with myself every time I come to thee. Like a thirsty to a well, a bee to a blossoming flower, or the moon to the ocean; I come to you only to quench my thirst, my hunger, my desire. But you are always kind to take me back into your grace. And this fair grace of yours is more graceful than all graces.
I have been able to confide in you completely, like I have never been able to in anybody else before. You banish all loneliness, lending your ear to my unbosoming, yet you are never complaining, never judging, never reprimanding, never sighing. You know all my secrets; you know so much of me that you become me!
Between your silent blankness and my loud restlessness, the imprints of the ink are the proof of the love we make. You were there in my deepest melancholic days, in my joyous days too, and I know you will be there as long as I need you.
Therefore, Beloved Paper, I am about to flout conventions, unveiling my maiden heart before you- I am in love! “With who?” You may ask. With you, that’s who!
(First published two years ago.)