Love Letters

I wish to get inside your shape. But dear, I don’t want to be fulfilled by you. I am a fulfilled, empty shell. When I am inside, hell even when I am outside, consume me, just like what Virginia Woolf said to the star riding through clouds one night. Your shape of mystery and grandeur and freshness will then demolish traces of adornments on my body. The automatic system will shut down. I will be left naked. In the intersection, blend me perfectly with the hues of the desert sands.