Morrow: an archaic letter to my future self

I write this letter whilst in the arms of my lover;

our hearts currently beat a deep burgundy

but will soon fade.

Thereafter, a sequence of sweetings;

a pattern that repeats itself so well—

not even Arachne’s nimble black fingers can weave.

But hark;

When I’ve mine own husband or wife

and we’re gifted a fruit by the gods

(a cherubim or twain);

they will guard our backyard Eden

where the air is green with oregano,

and the tables are lined with linen.

Yet, it’s so far away.

Farther than Odysseus was from Ithaca.

Was.

But he came home, and so will I.

My young eyes are to discover more colours.

And only then will I find my way home.