Beloved,
 
I went and visited the last place where Zelda Fitzgerald was alive. I thought of her paintings, that tree, her life and the words she had written: “... I play the radio and moon about... and dream of Utopias where it’s always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.” 
 
I stood amongst purple and pink blossoms, that Asheville of fresh air and Blue Mountains and I thought of a place where lovers walk hand in hand and sobbing, prayers and sins do not exist. A place where streets do not awake at midnight, graves do not pronounce human names. A place that does not tell a tale of separation and does not rain blood. A place where the serene sky has meaning and memory and the edge of nothing is a presence for everything. Wordless patience, watchful images, mystery, mythology, admiration, and flowers that down poured pink shades. I wanted the silk of your touch. I wanted to hear your voice, the voice that makes dreams move like a boat. 
I walked and shadows walked with me. I walked on dry lands and your shadow danced alongside me. You lived there in blossoms and triptych of light alongside me and forever.