This Tribute

Dearest…
Call me.
Please.
I know that you are upset.
You are a decent woman. I know. My dissipation is anathema to you.
Life is short. We are but bubbles in the cosmos.
I offer you immortality. At least – something to look back upon when you are old. When you beauty is a fiction of memory. When your body creaks and sighs like a tree in winter, I will give you the music of the dance.
I will write of you fondly. My words will portray you in beauty as well as any artist with his brush.
I will give you pleasure enough to warm you in your dotage, when your secret smile will puzzle your grandchildren. When a blush will catch the paper of your skin with flame, onlookers will ask if you are quite well. You will tell them that you once danced with peacock feathers in your hair. That you once sailed to New York in the world’s most luxurious ship, but you will say little more than that.
I will show the world who you were, and that you were beautiful.
Call me, whilst you can still claim this tribute.