Letter to My Muse
By: Patrick M. Ohana
Tags: Prague, Love Letter, Love, Prose, Muse

Letter to My Muse

Photo by Ylanite Koppens from StockSnap

Dearest, Crissey, my lovely muse:

I love you more than life itself, but you already know that to be the truth. My heart is overflowing with my love for you and your love for me. Luckily, there’s no struggle or competition between them. Even my love is in love with your love and vice versa. We are making love in my heart, and from what you wrote, we are also making love in your beautiful heart. I never saw your heart yet I know that it’s beautiful with its bluish hues that are only there for me. If you ever need a new heart, I’ll gladly give you mine. They won’t find a more compatible heart anywhere on this cerulean sphere. My heart is your heart whenever you need it. At present, it only beats for you, and as I mentioned before, I can hear it beating Je t’aime, Je t’aime, Je t’aime,… (I love you).

I miss you even during our daily communications. I try to picture you floating over the Moon, restless since our separation cannot be amended, forlorn since our love cannot be physical beyond our hearts, worried that my heart will stop beating given the power of our love for each other, mystified by the magnitude of our love that nothing seems to assuage. Our love is a fire that water cannot smother, a geyser of words and lust, a fountain of feelings in need of touch and all of the other senses.

I can see glimpses of you when my heart spills over to my lungs. I see our love in your eyes. I feel the warmth of your gaze. I even see your beating heart looking like a blue jay only for my eyes, when in other times it must look like the bird of paradise. I even see the clothes that you’re wearing. They are mostly red but with blue here and there only for me. Your scarf is always blue like our hearts. Your hair is always tied at the back like a bouquet of blue roses.

Love is simple in its demands. It only wants proximity and touch to satiate its intensity. Without touch, love inflames, and inflammation sets in, feeding on our love. But luckily, we always make more love. We also consume food and water to make more love. The ingredients are secret. No one has discovered the exact recipe. Perhaps only a muse knows it, but it’s one that she never divulges. The recipe of love is sacred. It comes from ancient stars that exploded and died to create it in their core before releasing it to the universe and this world.

I love you with every cell of my being. Every muscle stretches your name. Every blood vessel feels our love. Every organ celebrates your grace. Every gut bacterium knows about you. They are all rooting for us. They also want to feel you when I’m inside, joined to you like a rib, like the missing link, like love satisfied after having touched every centimetre of your skin, that mesmerizing tactile organ that never gives up. Touch is the ultimate definition of life.

I want to touch you, my love. I’ve had enough of the simulated touch inherent to dreams. It’s a fleeting touch, a masturbatory contact. You have to be with me when we touch. I can’t reach all the way to the Moon, my love. I need to feel your embrace as you need to feel mine in real time. I’ll have to see you in pretty Prague again. I hope that you’ll find the time to see me. I’ll wait for you at the same place between the two elevators. I’m sure that this time I’ll know on which one you’re coming up, even if I have to bribe the reception to tell me which one, which elevator is bringing your love to mine.

I hope to see you very soon, my love.

Sincerely and always yours,

M

Patrick M. Ohana