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Paul,
Your letter came today-
my heart stuttered,
as it usually does
when I see your beloved scrawl.
I would know your hand anywhere;
do you know that you write
exactly like you paint, no, like
you bring life to Life,
make it a thing
one cannot ignore,
a present continuous,
the thing in my veins
red and beating-
now, you are laughing at me
your dear smile, the one
I confess I count
as victory
every time it makes an appearance
at some foolishness of mine-
see, I am well, after all,
see, I go on,
despite it all,
perhaps
hope is harder to sever
than I'd thought
or perhaps it's because
today I saw a darkling thrush-
the branches of the almond are still bare-
but he came anyway, and I think,
perhaps,
perhaps, that counts.
Now you are tired of this missive altogether
and will consign it to flame,
and yes, that is deserved
for you have already made it
abundant that it is all
ended
the dream must,
as all dreams do,
steal away with the night
and so what if I
dreamed us a house,
with the windows wide
to let the light in, in, in,
and the sea, and the warmth,
because you should never, ever
be cold, no,
the darkness is all mine,
the madness is all mine,
you could never be touched
by the devil that
roots himself in my dreams,
that hungry maw, swallowing
all the good in the world, and
I am mad, mad, to be
writing like this
but I've never learnt,
no, not to be flayed open
by a yellow petal or to
not be made foolish
by starlight,
and I know there is nothing
that can make this-
acceptable-
without shame, you called me,
and Theo says it too,
so yes, yes, I admit it
but I cannot pretend that
I do not want- everything.

-Vincent