You are a miracle. My true romance. Meanwhile autumn is wearing its sexy cowl neck sweaters and leather boots. Its wet darkness seductively inviting us to sit by a fireplace in some quaint dimly lit restaurant in the west village, drinking more wine, talking about heroin. My hand can see through yours and there are no questions. Moravagine and Hopscotch electrify my mind and etch deep, eternal grooves on my heart. They will be there long after the last of your ashes are washed away by the roaring spring tides. I am your Lady Margaret and you are my salvation, my absolute muse. So many tears inside of me. Rivers and rivers of tears frozen into glaciers for centuries. I melt. I almost drown. Eventually something saves me, life saves me and I go on living, sometimes even happily ever after. But I still miss you at every turn.
Yours truly, lady Margaret.