A LOVE’S LETTER
Dr. R. Rabindranath Menon
Your hazel eyes, during our dance and dinner thereafter, tell me your urgent need, its appeal to my tender feelings. Perhaps I shouldn’t reveal my reaction, but our romance is a winner in such matters, and sooner than later what must decide our doubts is candour.
The last few months have shown our love-buds blossomed in full, a free and frank exchange must dear the cob-webs. It is strange that despite my determination to keep intact my virginity for you, though you might in fact have declared your disdain for such symbols out-dated, and I fee half-willing to meet you in that ecstasy-park, yet I must repeat my objection parrot-like; couples now-a-days commence with a coupling in advance to face an interval studded with repeats before marriage, formalisation of a nexus that has come of age, pills promising Elysium with a safety gauge.
Conviction, that amalgam of faith, myth and fact, is my guide. We shouldn’t allow time to rob us of that innocence of our first night compact. For sex, the inn-keeper role rests with the female who has a vision of that grand dreams’ finale that forges the factual bond. Existential rushes must bow out to values a culture cherishes.
Despite the noveau crop of the wayward, I see more like me in the love-parade. Virginity surely earns a new respect in a promiscuous world, creating a pure sect.