Red Room Where the Writers Are

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To you, that boy of 14 years who first sparked the wild flame of curiosity in my heart.

You brought me out in the light of a brave new world.

To you that young man of 15 years who teased me as you would a sister,

You, with jesting and easy manners turned mischievous ere the sun had sunk in the sky.

To you, that young man of 16 years who first held me in your arms without a needed word

You, who played adagios for me on the river’s edge.

You, who might have been everything and yet neither of us understood what we had…

To you, that man of 17 years who pined for me, when your heart I held undeserving.

You who stayed loyal, as vigilante as a guardian angel ever was.

You, who I miss, as a dear companion, when the days were young yet and promise glinted on the horizon.

To you, that man of 18 years, who never looked at me, not the way I wished you would.

You, who held the heart of another, and I could not even wish her ill, for any woman you loved was blessed beyond condemnation of any kind I could manage.

You, the first cut upon my heart, the first drain of my soul’s strength.

You, the one who approached the alter with another, and I fled the shadows of the church’s nave.

You, who never saw my tear strained face half lit by dancing candlelight.

You, who I measure all others against, ever the standard of perfection.

To you that man of 19 years, who I had so much to say on the smallest of things.

You, who understood honor and loyalty of the soul and the depth of friendship in the darkest of hours.

You, who I wished had been my other half, but our paths split slowly and inexorably towards distant ends.

You, I have a soft and sad regret as dust settles on those happy nights and bright days.

To you, that man of 20 years, who tames the tempests of the seas, and has no knowledge of the tempest of this woman’s soul.

You, who rekindled the fire from the long since burning embers of this saddened heart.

You, who I never thought to fall in love with, yet think of no other save you as the night creeps in.

You, who others tell me shall never look my way, for your heart is otherwise agreeably engaged.

You, who have broken me, with your warmth, your smile, your soul, and all else that makes the angels weep for your perfection.

You, who will never read these lonely words, these regretful thoughts.

You, to whom I wish to be the starlight reflected in your eyes, the sun warming your skin, the wind caressing your face.

You, who when the snow falls outside my window, never sees my wishful gaze, or hears my heartrending sigh.

You, who shall never sing me a lullaby in the warmth of a light summer’s night.

To you, the man yet to come, I have long waited for you.

You, who lives and breathes at this moment who doesn’t know I exist.

You, for whom I dream when my head touches my pillow, and the world opens up for me as sleep takes hold.

You, the man I love.