The unwritten love letter is devoted to you, to the flight of the Eagle in the Wind, to you, the array of feelings depth.
The letters dancing in "La Quebrada" are those I'd rather not write on paper, but on every pore of your skin.
with love, I do not tread on shadows, I am diaphanous language, always
on time, albeit time plays tricks on me without uttering a word.
I wish I could write the letter on your skin, delighting in the path of your scars as if I were immortal, to submit night as heart in every kiss stepping in your pores.
I wish I were pilgrim of your kisses, insomnia, slumber, root and crevasse, candle, debt annulment.
I hanker for writing about passions above and below your dark hair, putting letters amongst fingers that could whisper to you, unclaimingly, friendship, fellowship and love affairs, as accomplice held in languages that will never appal life density.
Never would I dare to invade your space, nor would you, so as to become diaphanous language approaching human beings.Every night I long to bid you farewell in letters, enduring at dawn to reach dusk loving you, being incestuous and angel in unison, being gypsy and that special thread grinning to your dreamt universe.
I wish I could be the beacon that lights vessels, address you as Alchemist in gestures, as gold can only be found deep inside, when hesitation and fear masks are taken off.
I dream of being a song in the wind, in sheets of new paper, hushing when talking about solitude, spending thousands of words in your true language.
My wish would be to write in magic ink which could emerge only at the moment of your reading these unwritten words, to let you know that by loving you I love every man that dwells in you, your playful child, your singer, your abandoned toys, your lost battles, your moments of victory; that I slumber in your wounds and love your orgasms as they resemble my laughter ... loyal, honest ... as lightning.
As I do not know how to convey the meaning of my feelings ... that you became Sunday in Church, a Castle and lute of my love spring ... I shall keep on trying to write, someday, a letter that can reveal by movements, by green leaves from the field, by branches caressing other branches ... that I love you as fireflies love the enigma of light, as hammocks slumber and dream of love.
P.S. A meteor has disguised the stars, those stars ready to fulfill your hopes, like atoms, like deeds, like spikes on men's eyelids, men like you, hearts beating in unison, preparing earthly balls for the angels to be kind to Ylia, who will someday be able to write a subtle letter, succinct, to convey the meaning of her feelings, and while reading it, you will blissfully grin.
"Love Letters to the 'Eagle in