Remember the last winter night we spent by the fire…
This time was different from the times before
This time we’d each become comfortable with our native languages
Yours was music, mine was poetry
Finally we were compatible
Remember how we exchanged a secret glance
When a third person asked what we loved about writing?
How did we respond to that again?
You said…
“It’s the only thing that engulfs me without having anything to do with love
Just something I have to do if I want to breathe deeply
And if I don’t do it…well then I can’t breathe.”
I said…
“I was never good at drawing even though I always wanted to
But also the things I need to draw, I don’t know their shapes
Like, what is the shape of passion when it burns love down to ashes
This is the only way I know how to draw that.”
You said…
“Sometimes I search for words in all the languages I know
And they don’t come to me except as a song.”
I said…
“My heart is a hoarder
This is how I declutter it, this is how I restore order.”
When he left the fireplace and we were alone again
I gave you the lyrics and you wrote the melody
Finally we were compatible.
Portraits in Letter 