What does it say of my life, that a slip of the tongue is the most disastrous thing to befall me. So safe have I become that the wrong words pave the way to heartache. When in my youth, ill-conceived action would have led to blood, to loss of fortune and life. And now in my safety, I look back on perilous times and see them as good.

The triumph of survival rings heavy then fades. The soft blandishments of current circumstance pale next to the risks of youth. These soft courtesies, small steps, enticements to a love longed for, all seem foolish now. In youth, I would have taken and ravished her.

Strength and fury, the hotness of passion welling up from the dark steps to fill sky with actinic display. But now, years past beyond the reckless of youth, speak words of poetry and hope she will want what I am now. Though knowing, this soft copy of who I was, this faded version of warrior poet, so pale. So wan with grief and times passage, who could want this.

I feel an old man now, though I know only middling years. I sit in my tower, surrounded by books and comfort, fortune frittered away. I write missives to you and hurt full, bursting, overflow as in youth remember. I wait, amidst silence, hoping that this time… This time you’ll find me.