The marrow of my soul calls out for loving warmth from the desolate cold. In the sea of sorrow I am unmercifully lashed to and fro. There is no lifeboat; memories of past love is my only prospective rescue. The hypothermia of the cold water slowly sets in, and I am listless — resigned to my fate. In my endless wading, for love’s reemergence I wait, but the moon’s pull causes the tide to rise; I am numb, I am so numb, both outside and inside. My foolish pride I did not cast aside. Why could I not tell her right then and there that if she walked away from me, a part of me would die ? If I must perish from the cold alone, I can at least say that I tried with everything within me to survive, but love is so difficult to find. My perpetual teardrops fall into the deep dark water that envelops me and are dissipated gradually into its dense salinity. The imminence of total immersion is upon me; after the next furious wave of sorrow, I shall be no more. I must quickly transcribe my own epitaph in solemn whispers, invoking passion and recalling intimacy in the warmth of the summer. My sincere letter;
If you should find my body, resurrect me in the healing of your affection and intimacy. Let me be broken from the shackles of pain and desolation and be set free; let me find an angel who will set me upon her mighty wings as I cry and take me up into the night skies — flying over the dark and deep waters that made naught the tears I cried and from which I was inexplicably revived.