My dear, why think of what I said years ago, when I was still young, when men would go speechless at my sight, when love only lasted for a moment and a half. My dear, forgive me, I know now that you’ve painted me each time as I am, as I must have been. I should have written to you, told you that I now wake up from hazy memories of standing in front of ageless windows, drinking wine with men, reading a letter wearing blue, playing the guitar –which song, I’ve forgotten. My bones remember the wet winters of Holland, and my black eyes, I now know, must have been blue at some point.
Do you remember the time when Calcutta wasn’t Calcutta, when the muslin weavers of Dhaka still had their hands, when you would hold my wrist for hours – really – feeling my pulse? We existed in a time before time, when gods still hadn’t decided who they were, when there were no continents, and no languages. We existed before love, and much before sin. We lived on Methuselah, far away from Earth. Do you remember? My dear, I don’t like it here anymore. At the end, when you leave Delft, don’t go to Arcadia, know that I will be waiting for you on the planet of genesis.