private storyline

[callmeby]

« Aimons donc, aimons donc ! de l'heure fugitive,
Hâtons-nous, jouissons !
L'homme n'a point de port, le temps n'a point de rive ;
Il coule, et nous passons ! »

Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire,
Que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé,
Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit et l'on respire,
Tout dise : « Ils ont aimé ! »

- from Le Lac, Alphonse de Lamartine

Comments

(( February 8th, 1849 ))

[yournocturne]

Dearest,

I can’t write you now. I mustn’t. The words that come are too harsh, too angry and bitter and we don’t deserve them, neither of us. I remember Marseilles. I’ll do nothing to forget it, just as I carry that one summer around in the back of my mind like a treasure trove, fastened by a heavy, unbreakable lock. I'm a hypocrite, still, even now and a hypocrite, apparently, I must remain.

Please. Be kind to yourself.

I knew it, of course, when you took too long to write. Sometimes, silence is all we need to convey our feelings, sometimes it speaks so loudly and so persistently that it might as well be a gun, fired in the dead of night.

No, stop, I must stop. I promised.

I want to embrace you and kiss you and hold you close in whichever way you’d let me. I’m sorry this causes you pain.

I’m sorry, Arséne.

Yours,
Joseph.