Is this love when I think of living with you forever when I think I might not ever see you again. Is this love? How prosaic. Even if it weren’t, every time I think about it, I’m thinking of you. I think of you even when I don’t think to. Why if all your good points were two lines each and I could put them on the page, God willing, I’m sure they’d fill a couple volumes if only I wouldn’t get tired of writing. But I’ll never get tired of thinking about them. I’d name them as I’d name the mountains and plains of Atlantis were it to have surfaced the day that you were born, out of the ocean like Aphrodite waiting for me to discover you you with your long brown hair, your curly hair and all the rest—your eyes, your lips your limbs, your hips and so forth. How proper! How appealing! How provocative! How appealing! You’re not only intelligent, but you’re modest, a modern Virgin Mary, or a Lady Godiva. You’re so gracious that I know you’ll appreciate my meaning when I say you’re worth your weight in autumn leaves or pigeon feathers, or flower petals, and all the time it would take me to gather them, even if I were blind and crippled, but, on the contrary, you make me feel like a hero; a shy but willing Superman, a gentle Paul Bunyan Sir Gawain or a saint. You always keep me second guessing. I don’t forget your good looks either. You look better than a eucalyptus tree to a koala bear, or a fifth of Jack Daniels to an alcoholic. You look better than would a screen production of Wordsworth’s Guide to the Lakes, were one to ever do it justice. You look better than all the wide-eyed angels in heaven, even when they all are laughing. That’s the way I see it, but I don’t know if I’m in love, or if I’m crazy. You certainly do carry me away. Is this love? Who can tell? Because when you move the human universe moves with you.
15 July 1975