It exists, it is extant, but we can never tell.

Until I can name the smell of the air near your sea, there shall be no rest, my love. To cast away the effrontery of the vulgar, merely mimetic piece you sent me the other day, I write to fertilise us. Read yourself:

In memoriam

In the garden of many flowers
of shapes and colours
all pleasant to the mind,
an impertinent voice is heard
obstructing buds and men alike.

What putrid smell is this?
As though some creature died!
Won't stand this torture any longer;
I pack my nose and fly!

In the garden of many flowers,
of shapes and colours
all pleasant to the eye,
the wicked voice still lingers.
Tell me how? The man has died...

Where did the colours go?
Now only corpses lie.
The sight... Simply appalling -
Let's leave at once! I'm shy.

It exists, it is extant, but we can never tell.

In the garden of many flowers,
of shapes and colours
once pleasant in my mind,
the naked eye still stares.
The nose would rather cry.

A livened world of beauty is what I want; what I pray for when I call out your name across the sea. Flowers need water, my love. They are not dry, wry conversations with a rock, my love. Those whitewashed walls on which crawling bougainvillea grow are not dead Simon, not more than the evergreen bougainvillea. They are not there for you to scrutinise, to rigidify. Why did you stop writing to me? Why do you only write to yourself? I am your reader; can you hear me Simon? I know what lies ahead of me; yet I read pretending to ignore the compromise, all in my head, the hope that there is always more.
But sap is eventful, my love. Stop making modular origami; they are immortal and boring, condemned to be ornamental specimens for the graves of unconsummated, once lurking passions. This is a letter and an invitation Simon: Switch if off, that goddamn brain! That dries it all, leaves out the rain. Switch it off, or we'll all be confessions of a sterile dream.

This world is densely populated by you. This world, which I dare not speak of, I dread being expelled from it.
So long as only words bring us together Simon, there shall be no rest, my love.