A romantic song

C.,
Last night I got some very upsetting news. I don't know what it means yet, but I have been intensely soul searching all night and all day today. So many decisions, so many possibilities, and I am dreaming of you in my soul and longing for you. I don't have a right to complain, and don't have a need to either, but there is a big part of me that still wishes I had have found my way with you when we were still in paradise, even if I know that the experiences we have had and the separation we have undergone have been somehow necessary and are an irrevocable part of the truth of our lives. I love you so deeply that it is humbling for me to realize how little I truly know myself, and it frightens me to realize how far away you truly are. I leave for Italy in a few days, and no matter what happens I feel as though I am finally going home.

I wrote this poem on the way from London to the cliffs of Dover, then stuck it in my wallet. I just found it again:

I sing a romantic song
under trees beside paths to the grey:
dreams of times still lost in the
memory of the dead. The
evening song chimes in the bells
on the ridge, and the white cliffs
arise like a bridge
to the far-away far-away
cast-away home of the soul of the romantic song.

I sing of the torquoise sea of my dreams,
and lovers with early morning ways,
smiling together through love-gilded hours of
coffee, tobacco, and kisses.
I sing of the heart of the poet's last poem,
the ruins of a castle awake on a hill,
ancient villages deep in the earth as chimney fire
wine bespeaks the last time when
comrades in arms will ride forth,
and all things glitter with the rays of the moon
as it welcomes you home.
I sing a song of the moon,
the enchantress whose light is a womb of the time
when you will finally be mine,
beside that sea of crystal joy,
pure blue like the Lord,
inside the heart of romantic song.