It makes no difference…

"Sulaaa, I love you. I love you like a madman, like a beast, like a man who is sick. I’m embracing you, touching you, merging with you—and I’m crying. I'm crying. God forbid it should be as unbearably sad for you as it is for me. My beloved, my beloved, my beloved. I’m working very poorly; in fact, I’m not working at all. I will start tomorrow. I need you so much. Don’t disappear. I will always be yours. Don’t do anything foolish—this isn’t jealousy, but brotherly concern. I can’t help you, my dear—unfortunately, just try to get by until the money comes. It’s unthinkable that we won’t meet until spring—I will go mad or take my own life. I’m lying (poetically) when I say I know the color of your name. But I do know for sure what scent you have, and don’t get me started on your taste. My fragrance, I can't live without your scent. Let me, Solomon, fall on your belly and breathe in that scent. Suddenly, I understood—phy-si-cal-ly—how much I desire you, my fe-male… I’m kissing your belly, and I don’t know how I shall fall asleep. I want you. I want you, I want you. I want to swear…" from a letter by Paruyr Sevak to Sulamitha, the woman who inspired the poem (translated by Tathev Simonyan)