When writers fall in love

When the Maples Turned Red

"Dear Lucy Mae Morrison...

I've been fighting the urge to write this letter. I've been fighting with every inch of my existence to not grab a pen. But as much as I hate to admit it, because you know I hate losing, I did lose. 

So now, here I am, rambling these words on the piece of an old paper, in the candlelight, sitting in the armchair where you sat that night. If I focus closely I can still sense the scent of your hair in the cushions. And that drives me half mad. 

Dear, if I was capable of bringing the oblivion into my heart and amnesia into my mind - I would do it in a blink of an eye. But my soul cannot allow that, as it needs to remember what it was like to feel alive with you. What it was like to feel my heart beat so fast that there is no denying that I cherish a deep love for you. There, I said it. What happened that one October night was neither an accident nor a mistake that I regret. And you can deny it, but I know that you felt the same. Your enchanting eyes were never so full of emotion as in that moment when our lips soaked in wine met. If I'm drunk on high hopes - tell me so and I'll pour all my ink into the pot with my white rose and never write to you again. Will the rose turn blue or will it die? That's the risk I'm willing to take. If it lives in blue shades I will have a reason to believe that you do not carry hatred against me and that you did not forget my name. 

I am not completely sure what I expect you to do with this letter or what I want to hear from you. I'm just a defeated loser writing these lines after the long battle with my heart and brain. 

Your touch felt like when colorful maple leaves fall on the cold autumn ground and I wish for them to cover me whole. 

Yours with mind and Heart...
W. T. G.

P. S. If you burn this letter, be sure to not burn it at once in the fireplace, but slowly over the candle, so the words can slowly disappear into your room with the scent of smoke. "

He distinctively finished the letter with the dot and without having a chance to think it through he put it into the envelope which he sealed right after. Then he called on his maid and asked her to send the letter as soon in the morning as possible. He was not going to risk changing his mind.

Will Thomas Greenwich just turned 23 and despite of his young age he was becoming one of the best known poets of Canada. His new book called The symphonies of a pen was sold out as soon as it appeared on the market and they were preparing the second edition.

Will dedicated himself to writing since he was able to write the alphabet. He had read more books in his 23 years than many people read in their whole life and he had no competition in making up rhymes. And even though his verses were full of passion, he had strictly refused to fall in love. He was known for his flirtatious ways and his experiences with young ladies, but he never considered them more than only inspirations and muses for his later poems.

But who knew that one early September evening could change so much...