I crave for your voice. I crave for more - I crave for the sight of your eyes, the bones of your fingers and the bristles at the nape of your neck. But I am sated with your voice alone.
When you speak, I smell the wine you down to live every evening, taste the salty afternoon air you breathe and see the sunrays reaching you, diffracting through the trees on the cobblestone street you live on.
I have weathered an entire month in waiting, and though the notes we exchange - mine miserably long, yours heartrendingly short - salve, your silence wounds.
These wounds aren't corporeal - I'm not bleeding. But there is a feeling gushing into my consciousness, a feeling that pushes me to want to make new wounds - real wounds that will make conspicuous my reckless love for you.
Should I heed it, dearest?
