I knew, but alas
I am going mad, abysmally mad. I don’t know what’s about your profound and enthralling disposition that makes me want to write about you in the night and in the oddest times of day. I used to dismiss writings that dealt with emotional attachments, for I surmised them to be nothing but hackneyed synonyms of the popular ones that blew off the charts.
Imagine us in an ocean, water that is thickly charming, silent and content. I see you — far at the other end, approaching snow-capped mountains — like green light in the Great Gatsby. I wish you well. I did so in fact, without your knowledge.
What lulls me not is your ambiguity, your unforgettably idiosyncratic features.
I need to learn to smile, and let you go.