the sea is emotion incarnate. it loves, hates, and weeps.
it defies all attempts to capture it with words and rejects all shackles. no matter what you say about it, there is always that which you can’t.
You are night, my darling: night at the peak of its lunar, feminine power. You are midnight: culminating shadow where dreams culminate, where love culminates.
I think of you always all the time. I can see you in bed, more lovely than anything that has been at all. I love you. I love you more, even, than when I said I loved you only a few seconds ago.
She talks with an accent of savage seas. Her breathing is the breath of the wilderness, she has loved with a passion that makes her blanch, which she never mentions and which would be like the map of another star if she told us.
You say she is often restless, and anxious-looking: is that a proof of tranquillity? You talk of her mind being unsettled. How the devil could it be otherwise in her frightful isolation?
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures to the end and far past the end. If this is my end, I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.