B,
I have been meaning to say to you, that I have run mad to the bone with your love. You are whirlwinds and wildfires, tornadoes and vortexes gathered into one, consuming my head. Your touch, my sweet canary, is a concussion to my head. Yet you, alone, are my rapture and my peace.
You, my orchestra of rainbows, are the metronome clicking in the centre of my head—you are the government of my mind, the muse of my existence. And you must know, my gazelle of the Niger, that whenever I am with you, under the tarpaulin at the coffee shop, I contemplate only on your love. Even now, as I remember the chattering of your mouth, the glinting of your teeth I am mulling over your love. In fact, I am thinking now, that your love predates you and me, materializing from all those centuries as a nuclear warhead. I am thinking that your love is the origin of everything. I am thinking that your love is Jehovah, Allah, Buddha, Krishna, Obatala, Amadioha, Ikenga; I don’t see why it couldn’t be.
How could I ever be weary from loving you? You are an unquenchable fire. In the smallest chance I’m not thinking about you, I fear that I may convulse to death with restlessness. My love for you is violent and untameable, wild and raw, tearing bone from flesh. Nothing will shackle my love for you—no manner of God above, no form of Hades below. I love you to the very nucleus of your every cell and I have claimed them, long before cancer came for them. What then, precious B, has cancer taken?