My Dear Correspondent,
It's our moment again, our communal communication calendar:
x's until today. Your quiet missive brings me peace and submission;
I've been trying to teach my intuition to accept a challenge and you
offer me an offramp. Your companionship, your consideration, your
loyalty; I have much to learn from you. And I am paying attention.
To go line by line through your empty pages is to see a refraction of our
longstanding commitment to each other. To answer your question: yes,
silence work for me. I haven't been able to give that answer; I haven't
typically been able to see the forest but for my eyeballs (as we've discussed).
I know you read carefully. You for whom veneration is a hiccup in an infinite
desiderata, your obscurity is a moral right to the midpoint. You know me, my
temptation to be contemporary, to get close to power, to sidle up to hot hands.
I take your instruction as a humble neophyte, a wishful novitiate who can only
dream of being ready to bear death. Do you know about endings? Or does your
infinitude make them appear as they are, arbitrary narrative markers?
One day we will have to sit down, over a hot drink, and talk all of this out.
You would do that for me, wouldn't you? Break your vow of unvoluminousness?
Yes, I know, you won't. That's why I can play big syllable and pitch wild,
curved phrases. Your forbearance does not come across as callous.
Another day, another letter. Another afternoon, another list. Another reverie,
perhaps another reader. We write to each other in faith. Or something very
much like it. I develop further my affection for your reverse prolific ways.
Thank you for bearing my onslaught. I need to put my extra sentences
somewhere, or they will overflow. Or that's my current metaphor.
Until next time,
Poeis
Roman Ryan 