For Rye, One Sunday Afternoon

Dear Rye,

Remember the penchant that we shared for Vivaldi's music, Gabriel Garcia Marquez's love novels and Pablo Neruda's poetry?

Remember the nights of long silence in your bed?

Or the evenings we turned off the light and gazed at the aquarium while sipping spirits?

Remember our episodes of togetherness --- just you and me?

They're all gone.

Today, I am writing you this letter in hopes that maybe, somehow, while you're in the beach with your friends and your book and your alcohol (which seems to have taken my place in your life), you may think of me. And the wonderful moments that we shared when you were young, and not so busy.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,

and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.

It seems as though your eyes had flown away

and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.

As all things are filled with my soul

you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.

You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,

and you are like the word Melancholy.

I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.

It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.

And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:

Let me come to be still in your silence.

And let me talk to you with your silence

that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.

You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.

Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,

distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.

One word then, one smile, is enough.

And I am happy, happy that it's not true.

Your voice within,

Rye