It is not for the sake of worlds, my beloved, that worlds are loved, but for one's own sake that they are loved. It is not for the sake of gods, my beloved, that gods are loved, but for one’s own sake that they are loved. It is not for the sake of beings, my beloved, that beings are loved, but for one's own sake that they are loved.
When you were here, I knew that I was real. I had your warmth on my back, the sinew and callus of your hand in mine. Amamus ergo sum. Today I fled you, into my park of ice and concrete and green rivers. But you were there, and I was not there.
The eye is burning, forms are burning, perception is burning, also whatever is felt as pleasant or painful or neither-painful-nor-pleasant that arises with perception, that too is burning. Burning with what? Burning with the fire of lust, with the fire of hate, with the fire of delusion.
I have no fire. They bring spices and wine to warm me, but I feel nothing. The words on a page should stir me, but I understand nothing. I watched for you to turn around and come back to me, but I knew I would see nothing. I saw nothing.
Flame has color. I liked it better when the world was burning.
There are only wishes: I wish we’d gone, I wish I’d known, I wish we hadn’t, I wish I’d given. I wish we had just one more day, to do and say it all. Amice, ave atque vale. But to what end? I saw the future on crisp printer paper. I always thought we’d hold a match to the corner, and watch it all go down in flames together. But you tenderly held the corner in the green river, and now (that you are gone, and perhaps I am here again) I wait and watch, hour by hour, as the water creeps up the page. Now the words are blurred. Later I will try to remember what they said. Tomorrow there will be nothing but wet, white printer paper, and it will come apart in my hands.
Cited, in order: Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, II.iv.5; The Buddha's Fire Sermon; as well as three distortions of well-known texts. First person who identifies them wins the prize of making me smile.