My darling Phoenix—

Only a few words today and at that with pencil – with yours – What is love? How is it defined, I wonder? It does not envy; it does not boast; it is not proud. It is not rude; it is not self-seeking; it is not easily angered; it keeps no record of wrongs. It is not manipulative nor does not delight in evil – neither is it jealous, lustful, fearful, or hateful. It is not security, comfort, satisfaction, dependence, pleasure, desire, nor pain. It is not owning or possessing, demanding or expecting, not in hoping. It is not petty. There are no 'best days' nor 'best years' – it is only now. And what is love, ultimately, if not powerlessness, and vulnerability, and foolishness? Who among us behaves wisely out of love? Who among us behaves strongly, out of love? Who among us is protected, out of love? Love first makes us foolish, in order to make us wise. It is illogical, indefinable, and imperfect, but universal to all! Love is not beyond the control of the individual. It is an act of conscious choice. One does not simply fall in love; one chooses to love. It is purposeless but is at the root of our basic nature.

I have ne'er said a word, and nor have you. I ne'er heard a word, and nor have you. It does not need to be spoken, nor listened, but understood. It is all around us, my life, my all, my everything, my very self. Love may be guiltless, but I am not. You have given me so much; I feel I returned so little. I have neither beauty nor of many words; however, I am made of many hues, many moods, many sufferings, many worries, many natures, of many faults, of many flaws, and of many thoughts, and many dreams. I have travelled the world, seen its sights, seen its treasures, but none like you. My wife, my lady, I give thee all and my everything, my soul, my life, my essence, my last breath, remain my true, my only treasure, my all as I am yours – utterly, completely, forever...

—S.