I was thinking of Rothko’s paintings, what it would be like to stand in front of any of them. I don’t know what he felt as he painted, but the wonder of colour must have washed over him – over and over again – I can entirely imagine why people wept as they looked at them. Even looking at prints stirs me, as if I were seeing colour for the first time ever, each time I am electrified, each time is a new first.
When you sing, it is something like this; I am completely myself and outside my body, all at once. I haven’t told you this, because, even this isn’t it and because you don’t need to know. Gorgery (thank you, Mervyn Peake) was made for your voice.
It also came to me that I need to hold my love for you lightly. I’ve never been more alive to loss – how it can scrape away everything one has held dear – and that’s why I say this.
I am aware of how different our worlds are and all the things we would never be able to share, and I can’t honestly say that it won’t matter. It probably will.
Someday, I will send you Shikibu.
I cannot say
which is which:
plum blossom is
the spring night’s moon.