New York City, December, 1998

Dearest of all,

I felt compelled to start this letter by quoting Keats but I couldn't. It wouldn't be fair and wouldn't be accurate. Even though I think the old poet still has the keys that could unlock the doors to your heart, quoting him would make it vain and pointless.

It is my work and my mission in life to shape into form feelings and visions too elusive to put on canvas but, as an artist, I am adamant against putting boundaries to Art. Anyway, it's the wandering nature of my spirit that makes me borrow from the Greats, and hope that they can help me understand how my heart fell for someone so young, so quickly.

As you probably noticed, the flowers I sent you were chosen not by me but by yourself, when, unwittingly, you told me which colors you liked for a ribbon while we strolled through the now old gardens of this big city. I just took that hint and applied it to the best layout I could find in the third or fourth shop I went.

You wouldn't believe how hard it can be to turn your dreams into a floral arrangement. It took me quite a few hours to find the right one. I hope you were pleasantly surprised when you got them but I guess I'll have to wait until I hear from you.

To ease your mind somewhat, I can tell you that you already know me and, if you use every little piece of information I sprinkle here and there, you'll know who I truly am. Playing your piano you are but a distant Athena, beautiful and oblivious to the world, pressing ivory keys, plucking strings in my heart that had been dormant for so long.

It is funny to think we've known each other for only a month. It's scary to imagine that you, so young and so perfectly beautiful, could still think of me. Memories of my youth flutter before my possible future, a future with you, my darling, my angel. Would you ever love me like I love you? Would ever see past my age and weary fingers? Would you even answer this missive?

Well, why don't I let you tell me that...I am curious about what your reaction was after reading the little verse I enclosed with the flowers. It's part of a poem I wrote and from which I had envisioned sending you little bits every once in a while. So, here goes a whole stanza:

"Into the dark brown oceans of your eyes I'm bound
Upon the rivers of passion which flow inside
A shelter from life's woes: Your heart
Time's infinite sands run by,
Your soul and mine dance intertwined."

Looking into your eyes is just like diving into a universe of deep emotions that defy any easy definition and sends me into a state of contemplation that makes working all but impossible.

In the meantime, while you work out you true feelings, I sit here always writing, always waiting for the moment when I turn around and see your face and touch your skin. It feels like it has been a long waiting, and the pounding of my heart demands an answer. But, after all, who am I to ask you anything but time?

La belle dame sans merci...


David Wolf

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