“I don’t want to start something new”, said She.
“But it has already started”, said He.
“This will not work out”, said She.
“And how do you know this”, said He.
“Because too much light makes you blind”, said She.
Pause…
“What about too much love?”, said He.
Pause…
“Too much of anything is bad”. Said She.
“You are right, too much closeness, too much travel into your eyes, the big round eyes of yours…is too much”, said He.
“Too many possibilities…of happy afternoons, of tea cups, of mountain tops and tricky overpasses, of gifts and babies…too much of life”, said She.
“Of combing your hair when you are sick, of loving your wrinkles as we grow old together. To have a small world inside this big world”, said He.
“Although the most probable thing is that you will lose all hair and that beard of yours will look strangely funny. My wrinkles will give me far more personality than you could ever imagine”, said She.
“Oh sure, let’s bet on that. A hundred years from now, you and your cupboard will still be a mess.”, said He.
“Dear Friend,
Thank you for all the thunderstorms; they will always be alive inside of me, spreading their wings north and south. Sitting on the rock like that thinking pigeon, you will stay a bit with me, every now and then”, read her letter.
“Dear Friend,
I will miss you like the cough and the cold; like the sneeze that shakes you up from within. Truth is the white roses are not going with that scarlet shine of yours. But I do hope that you keep your messiness up wherever you are. And although you are very far, know that I can come at any time to unrest you out of your sleep.” Read his letter.
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