Amica mea musa (my friend and muse)

I find myself thinking of you more and more every day. At first it was just an occasional thought prompted by a photograph or hearing your name. Now, it is daily and sometimes even hourly; every memoria more elevated than the one before. All of my senses are heightened to an almost uncontrollable ache that I can only bandage until the next imago of your paradise creeps in. My head is spinning and I don’t know where to go from here. You engulf my very soul.

I want to wake up where you are. I won’t say a word; just sentio intently the orchestra that is your voice. The seagull trumpets along with the woodwinds blowing through the tall grasses. The crashing symbols of each wave builds with the percussion beats. The violins flow through the breeze of each boulder and stone with the piccolo playing curiously as a seal bobs it head watching intently.

I long for the essence of your breathe with its saline enchantment. My hair becomes alive with motus in your every exhale and I can feel your sanguine embrace on my skin. The memory of your kaleidoscopic form creates an overwhelming need to see you, as if my heart will explode at any moment from a deep sorrow.

Someday, my amatus, we will convene again and I will embrace your entirety as I once had. Once again you will be my teacher and I your pupil. Once again I will experience the full rapture of your existence and I will attempt, with unqualified abilities, to capiet eam in film.

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