Burning, quietly.

You J, are the most beautiful woman n the world. In March or June, seasons, times of the year, decades, in for a life time, your beauty is given to you, to the favourite of the gods. And I am the whipping boy of the devil. When I am not writing on these pages, I compose, find music closer to that I want to say; that one day I will write or compose that will say, sing, how we should have lived together, had Chronos, that all powerful joker who I respect and owe my years to, had been kinder and adjust his calendar we live by, but unless I died in the moment I saw you first, even he cannot interfere with how I imagine we would have loved, lived, even Time cannot alter the past. The experts said that my music is beautiful. Naturally, it was composed with you in my mind. Singing of my love I close my eyes and listen to the selection of the evening, the doorway gets a little lighter, then I see you enter, stopped half way, you are not coming closer because of the regulations, but they do not have control of what I think you are doing next, bend down and put your face to mine; and I ignite in my local fire, where I burn, in the irresistible, great pandemic of love, always, always burning in the world.

Released from the files of Ylorak Apneu, in compliance with his Freedom of Information Act. For years I was near the top of their list, Perhaps unwittingly as part of the entertainment. It was also an exercise of their generosity After the word got around that I bathe. Their wet, loquacious girlfriends and pretty wives Fell silent when I entered, busying themselves In the kitchen or at the bar, looking at me Every time they passed by the doorway. As the years went by the invites came Less frequent, then ceased altogether. I fell off the bottom of their list. Now, their wives and girlfriends call, Querying, “How are you? I know that your were a friend of his, but you can still call, I still have the same number or am I not on your list anymore?”

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