Poet’s letter

“I am writing this letter to you with a plea in my heart. When will you come to Venice? I am waiting for you so longingly, my heart. It is so hard for me without you, my soul. It hurts... like having an eye torn out or an arm severed. You are my death itself. And yet, I know what you are doing right now. You are untangling your hair. There is surely an autumn leaf caught in it. In the autumn, you always wander through the woods, until the ground is covered in a white shroud. And in the spring, you wait for me on the bridge, when the gondolas are empty and cold, with only ghosts inside. I am waiting for you, and I feel so empty. The room is empty. 
The wind wanders through it.
I go to pray to the Lord and to Mary. I gaze upon her face and envy her stony serenity. I am but a mass of flesh, blood, bone, and animal passions. She is both stone and light. You are my light. 
My very skeleton longs to leap out and enter you... 
Please, write me a letter. Even if the answer is "no" – if that is what it must be. In that case, my Venice will take on dark hues – the colors of old, rotting roses. Everything will grow brittle and crumble away, just as I do without you. My longing gazes out at the moonlit night and the city lights. Sometimes, it sings and composes poems – to my one-eyed Moon. 
At times, masked figures stand beneath my windows, watching me. They want me to come away with them. But I shall not go; I have nowhere to go – my face belongs to you, I have no face to put a mask on. I am naked...”