dear sir or madam

salutations
as you read these words, you may find they are addressed to you personally
you in particular, for it is of you I thought as I set them down, and for you they were intended
I pray that you receive them into your heart, like something precious, like grace
and that they enrich you in a way they have not enriched me, for to me this is an empty exercise.
I have thought so long of you, but still have only guesses to the workings of your soul.
you are dark to me, and all my insights are reflections of a muddy lake,
my own distorted face like a narcissus flower.
This we can share:
Imagine that flower regards itself
and as it does so comes a breeze, smelling of nothing more than the narcissus' own self
a petal falls, and two, swirling down between the flower and the water,
and they are of the flower but not, and they are of the air but not, and they are of the reflection but not,
and when they land the water ripples, dissolving the reflection.
think of those petals, which to us
 (we are the flower now, together we can do that, and be married) seem intruders, foreign,
though they are more solid than the image, or than the water, which when broken seems most like its own self, textured and deep.
Together let us wait for the breeze to still, and the petals to sink, or to sail out of our memory,
and together let us live again in our reflection on a still day.

Until then, dear stranger
may we live always together in anticipation.

Farewell, my love.