Il Postino (Theme) - Holly Gornik
By the time this letter empties into your hands (Oh, how I love to run the tips of my fingers in your delicate hands, to your hair, your earlobes while your head rests on my chest), the windswept hills of the island have already welcomed the arrival of monsoon. The surf has washed ashore--in the secret beach where we first made love under stars and cloud-filtered moonlight--dreams from another archipelago.
The birds, to escape the biting cold of winter--like you always do--could be there by now. You know these migrants well. And we called them by names from our hut by the edge of the lagoon. The rhythm of the waves, at this time, could be rousing the boulders from its stupor. The fragments of corals could already be piling up at the sanctuary shores.
Let the sunset swallow all the yearnings we own, weighing like the seabed, after that last drop of wine running from your neck to the valleys of your breast to the regions of your soul, and to that one, final kiss--in Rock Point.
I have kept all the letters you sent. I arranged them by date and stored them in a shoebox where they remain unopened. Burn them and take my boat to the tip of the island and scatter the last of my ashes.
Forever with you,
______________
