I always start my letters the same way, don’t I? I shall try to innovate the next time.
But you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Especially not an old dog who is so madly in love with you. My angel, the light in the darkness, the person who holds my heart in her chest, next to hers.
Your name shouldn’t be said out loud. The other day, someone asked about you – I can’t remember who it was no longer, I don’t pay attention to the myriad of faces perturbing me during the sessions of the Vampiric Council, not when you’re not holding my hand, reminding me that there are important matters being discussed and that I can’t spend the seconds, minutes, hours, thinking about you – but they did. A simple question, something like how’s Airi?, well intended, sweet. But my first impulse was to stitch their lips together so that they could utter no more words for their entire lifespan. How dare you pronounce the name of my beloved? A name that should be like that of a God; never said in vain.
I exaggerate, my love. But you know I like flair and extravagance. Now, the reason why I was writing. I wrote a new song for you. A trenodia; a poem of lamentation.
I compare our love to death – because it is never-ending and there’s no coming back from it. I compare our hearts to kintsugi, the Japanese art of putting broken pottery back together with gold. Because they were broken, but repaired anew, and made stronger, more beautiful.
Hopefully, I can get the discography to have it out soon. Before you come back. So that one day you can hear it on the radio as you pass through a restaurant about to close and you can stay, and listen, and think of me. Of a simple man who awaits your return. Who craves you. Who will wait, patiently, even if his first impulse each and every night is to go find you, wherever you are, just to share a kiss...
One day, I will sing it to you, while you stare into my eyes.
