To the man who reads,
I am in love with you. I adore you. I adore the way you philosophize in a corner, away from all the blathering strangers with their conventional talk about the weather. You’re inside your own mind, traveling to far away cities – the distance between your folded legs and arms is a millennia – a place internalized, untouched by physical entities, created from the words and narratives of your favourite writers, your only teachers.
You understand the beauty in silence and isolation; the reverence and serenity in enjoying a good book while wrapped in the covers of your bed. You know that strength comes from working on your soul, that the food for your thoughts are the only sustenance that matters. You know of true romance undevoured by the unrealistic expectations of the selfish ego, of love that flourishes from the combined experience of two individuals, of unrequited, unconditional love that can only exist through knowing yourself completely, of love that persists in the solitary.
I am enamored by the world you inhabit – a silent world only you can visit, a world, that if I ever do enter, will only be left to misinterpretation, tarnished by the limitations of my own knowledge, lost in translation.
And so I leave you to it, my poet, my lover – and hope that I meet you somewhere, in between your journeys from the ordinary plains of human existence towards transcendence.
Until then I am yours, in idea.