Dear Tom,

 

If only I were a smart woman, I could describe to you my feelings. To me you still look like a gorgeous bird that unites in itself the beauties of form, plumage, and song. I loved listening to your voice, tirelessly.

 

I would tell you that you were the greatest wonder of my childhood, and I should only be speaking the simple truth. But to put all this into suitable words, my gorgeous Tom, I should require a courage far more firm than that which is bestowed upon me. For I am the humble friend that you regularly mocked and only lately truly discovered.

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I will not tell you to what degree you were dazzling. As you know, we all rambled to make you feel beautiful and appreciated.

 

I was content to delegate to my girlfriends the duty of watching, listening and admiring you, while to myself I reserved the right of ignoring you. This may be less attractive to the ear, but, believe me, it was sweeter for the heart.

 

I loved you. I loved you my Tom and I couldn’t reiterate it too often. I could never express it as intensely as it felt.

 

I recognise you in all the beauty that surrounds you, in form, in colour, in perfume, in harmonious sound: all of these bring you back to me, to my memory where you remain superior to us all, still. 

 

But you were not the solar spectrum with the seven luminous colours, you were not the sun himself, that illumines, warms, and revivifies. This is what you were not and still are not. And I am not that lowly girl who adored you. Not anymore.

 

me