I wrote them in a time of passion.
I listened to what I felt, then translated with tenderness.
I indulged in sweet desire with my solicitous words.
While I no longer possess those letters, I remember them, and me.
I regret nothing, not even the passing of time since I sent them. Writing those letters brought me to a far corner of my life, a peak worthy of reflection even now.
They delivered me along a wild path only chartered with instinct, never to be traced again.
Their replies brought me harmony, warmth that melted my ice, and left me alive.
And then alone. With gratitude.
(Nothing lost, only gained. I learned my own intensity, a fire within, lit by my unhindered words–and the gift of being heard.)