Words of Music

Dear,

In writing, you feel both liberated and imprisoned. You never have enough of words yet you're always short on them. You write the same ideas differently each time. You compose sometimes rather than write. Your words are like music, lacking a real instrument. You indulge and immerse yourself in the words, and then allow yourself to drown.

Drowning in art is a savior, a way of survival. You catch the sentences running down your train of thoughts and decide to free them, with no hesitation nor reluctance. You're so full of life, and your words are life to me. I am happily and finally writing to you, for you, and about you. Sometimes I write with you, too. But, of course, I'm not as musical as you are. I'm just the bass of the orchestra. You're the opera itself, the piano, the violin, the guitar, and every other instrument. I'm the bass no one notices. But in the background I take relish in watching you compose and in hearing your magic. In the background, I play my tiny part of music, loyal to you and to the maestro, who is also you and the magic your words bring. 

You're my music, my words, my sentences, my openings, and endings. You are, if nothing else, the composer and music piece. And, in the background, I love you; I only love you helplessly.

Yours, and only yours, faithfully and sincerely,

N.