My dearest,
I write to you with urgency and secrecy, as if words themselves might carry us into a different life. “My soul is yours, wholly and entirely, and I cannot live without your presence.” Or, as Keats to Fanny Brawne, burning with longing in the most ordinary phrases: “My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you. I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again… You have absorb’d me.” To write is already to risk too much, and yet I can’t help myself.
Words are futile, but in your absence I have nothing else.
This house is elegant, respectable, bourgeois in its calm dis-guise, yet something is wrong. Or maybe I’m done with mere elegance, just as the demands of respectability seem absurd.
Seem insulting. Everything polished now feels slightly off, every object out of place. The symmetry has cracked. The air itself has shifted, as though your presence has entered and unsettled every surface. You are the air I desperately, hopelessly desire.
Just you. I’m suffocating, my darling
So, let this not be praise but invitation. Hurry, come quickly.
The curtains are drawn, the wine is chilled: I’ve followed the script this far, but I hate a soliloquy. Wear something reckless, as though mocking propriety. Stay or go as you wish. You have already left your mark.
Yours in the undoing
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L’articolo MFW – Versace Spring Summer 2026 proviene da Daily Mood.
