Dear Ms K,

I’ve tried twice to tell myself something, something magical about your soul and the sound it left inside that space we may say is my heart.

Often, I know it well when the words wheel beyond what is true, beyond what is time, beyond what is and into that holy seduction which is the severely profound and special area that becomes poetry.

And now, instead I letter. Sharply littering the page with loiter words which want not to wound another, which want not to be picked-up and trashed in some recycle container. Indeed, they wish to share the air of this pure sympathy I have entrusted myself to shoulder.

Most likely, it’s simply something I should pen when I am older, when I have gone to Moscow and at least placed a poor man’s orchid by your picture.

Seven Sunday Snow. City Speaks its Winter invitations.
Silk seconds its near sensations, December all aglow.

Summer had not yet surrounded us, when I learned what had happened.

I wrote, may you be near to where your heart was walking, wanting to whisper myself down to the scene, down into that sorrow.

I won’t say I had a specific reason, sometimes angels guide our steps and we simply go.

Cathedral Parkway down to Water Street. I shouted a prayer to G-d as I smoked a cigarette. For a while, nothing much mattered and I made my way back to the Upper West Side. It may seem or sound alike a long way to go, but I swear it was not and, although the scene is void of triumph, I would have surrendered further if only to properly mourn.

To underscore the groove, my gone to heaven Ruslana, whatever angles led my inspiration said it was for you and yet anyone with an eye on empathy knows it could have been me or worse some other beauty…

None of which I have ever met or thought to mention before the act of this composition for you, my never encountered yet newly intimate stranger.

Perhaps, that is wrong, for nothing is true if I deny that I saw in your story a mate. That is to say some sort of match, of kindred spirit…

Pictures came with it, yet it wasn’t until later, when I browsed another gazette, that I realized just how beautiful you could be in a photograph.

Music said you were a model and maybe I should have known, but maybe you know how it is…

There are posers and then there are prototypes.

It was the story and then yes it was also the picture.

So, there is something magical about you and I feel it past the sadness and I hear it above the madness as my heart speaks to translate the sound which I have had the need to say since all this transpired.

It’s not exactly possible for me to know if I have actually seduced the right words to reveal the light sensation.

There are pop tent inflations and then there are purely tender reflections.

It seems so, from here. However, it is a matter for you to decide if this howling mosaic does indeed hug.

I hope so in the knowing that you will always be twenty and I, well, I will always remember.

Sincerely,

Me.