To Anonymous
On writing to lovers we will not address
30th January 2026
I wish I could crawl into your skin and hug you from inside. Let my body heat transfer over until you feel your pores beginning to sweat. Unfortunately I cannot do that, so I only hope my arms will suffice. Maybe in death I can achieve this goal. Of exposing my all consuiming love for you. For now I’ll continue to act life as poetry and let you call me deep. I would read to you all my favourite poems so as to make you understand my devotion to you. You don’t seem to understand. What do I do to change so? Let me close my eyes and let you touch my skin because I know I wouldn’t flinch; I recognise your fingertips. How your muscle and flesh curl aroud your bones. That’s prof! Tell me, lover, do I make sense? The Gods ripped us in half at the beginning of life, and we have managed to find each other again, do you not recognise me? I seem to be filled with questions. You fit inside me and I in you, perfectly matched deckled edges, distant parts of Pangea. Understanding is necessary to reach full acceptance. Put down that thorny tarp of pessimism that you use as a shield, my skin is soft and I cannot- will not- hurt you! I am endlessly chasing you because I know you will eventually run out of stamina. I have wings latched onto my spine for when I get tired- those so soft you’d think to have died and made it to God’s heaven. So tell me, lover, why are you so afraid of me?
I love you and I meant it,
Yours.
How does one continue to write of love in a way that is not repetitive and desparate? It feels as though when I am cought in these moods, I am so overcome with a desparation for Anoymous that I lose grip. Everything around one must become abstract and maleable, otherwise you must submit the self into some asylum. I close my eyes and I hear a wonderful flute, a piano, and the leaves. Yours steps and them crunching beneath rubber soles. I trail behind. When one has a lover that you cannot truly call a lover- but are willing to maintain like so- you must wash yourself with the moisture an oak tree holds after a storm. Let this grand earthy feeling seep deeper into you, so that when the time comes- oh time how strange you are- you know the path of their veins, the pattern of their thumb print, the curl of their hair, and the HEX code to their eye colour. That is a wonderful thing. To slowly fall and burn; to feel like a madwoman out of sheer passion for you, dear Anonymous.
Suddenly, it seems, that when we write of love and our lovers we find a God. Not the God the collective praises, but the ones the Greeks would speak of. This new found God is entirely made up by the individual, one who can inhibit the mind of the writer. Everything becomes poetry through the eyes of the writer in love, but these poems will range from those of the romantics to the troubled veterans. It can feel like a war that you are fighting alone, and we throw defenses to the absent ghost trentches on the other side. Why do I let it get so out of hand? We let it get out of hand. That is why it is so special, so essential, because without these words, the sentiment would continue to bounce inside my lungs until this ball of stickiness clogs my airways and I pass of suffocation.
This is a first time experiece for many; and I don’t ever grow tired or sickened of reading of our collective loss of sanity over our Anonymous. It is frightening to admit who Anonymous is. To admit to Anonymous all that percolates down the spine of this curled God fearing fawn. Human creatures with this sickness- this one that I possess- cannot go about life with consistent focus. There is life before Anonymous and there is life after Anonymous. That is how you mark a timeline. Now the writer in love can only pray that Anonymous is reading their outburst without knowing that that is their new asigned name.
So beautiful ✨
So beautifully written Isa <3