Love letter # 423

I do not claim to know. Rather, I hope. I interpret what I believe to be the signs, yet I cannot know if I misread, or if my misty eyes are blind. However, in the light of such uncertainty, I ask myself this: how will it be if, years from now, I am still wracked with wondering? Which is the greater risk – knowledge or regret? ‘No’ may be a torment. ‘If only’ might be worse. And so, across the space between your heart and mine…this, the leap of declaration. For now I am pilgrim. Ready to arrive.

Love letter # 484

You fan the flames that I cannot explain. You ignite stars that make nights into days. But I love your sadness most of all. That heavenly breaking, temptation to fall. The clunking of doors and the creaking of boards. Dust on the mirror and drafts in the hall. Like rain in the summer, such unlikely jewels. This polish is scratched up, yet so beautiful. Shall we dance in the hush between siren and song, or make like we’re flawless…so shiny and dull?

Love letter # 565

Though I have stood next to you, heard your private words, tended to the wounds you keep hidden, still I remain at the distance of mystery. Still you are the secret kept.

If I have sought to love you, you have been as sand. Impermanent. Shifting at the behest of breath. And whenever I have reached out to you, yours has been the hand withheld. You the boat unmoored, me the traveller lost.

Is this your refusal? I cannot say; for it may be that you do not even hear the plaintive cry. Perhaps I have made a shrine for an angel with averted eyes. Yet, if from your eyrie you look not down upon me, into what sky do you gaze? What vanishing is it you seek that would see me disappear?

Love letter # 421

You know he ignores you, don’t you? I see the way you try to get his attention, or hold it, and he diverts to his phone or gives the minimum response. You smile, your eyes full of tenderness, your lovely form inclined towards him; but he knows he doesn’t have to try. Or thinks he doesn’t. Or simply doesn’t wish to.

Yet, if I am tempted to judge him – which, I confess, I am – I ask myself if he knows something about you that I am blind to. That gorgeous figure of yours, those coquette moves…what do they hide? What is the price of all that visible affection? (Affectation?)

I wonder now what history you share in private. The invisible realities of closeness. Perhaps I will never know; but, watching on, fascinated by you, I am most certainly prepared to find out. To return the gentle, playful intimacy you appear to offer. To take his place.

Love letter # 528

What if I love you too much? What if I lose it?

This is what worries me. It’s not like I haven’t nearly gone mad before. Maybe I want it too keenly for my own good. So much that it threatens to leave everything else in ruins. The glorious wave that, in its inexorable motion, lays waste to the land. The high that crashes into the indignity of desire.

Yet perhaps you like the prospect of danger. Is that why you’re asking? Why your eyes are daring to peel off skin? Such a provocation.

We both have a lot at stake. Self-esteem, reputation, a measure of sanity. This won’t stop at a night of novelty. Or simple convenience. If we cross into the wilds, we must expect the end of comfort.

Are you sure you want this?

Love letter # 699

In you, astonishment. The miracle of the other mirroring self. More than that, making self. You, the architect of me. The space that defines the point. The eternal, coalescing into now. The beauty of the particular, and the awe of the universal. As though I knew you all along. Call and response. As if the you and the I were the one and the two. This, our loving, the helicopter view. The melting and the reforming. The very action of being. The magnificent arc of our unbecoming. An apotheosis. A counter-intuitive divinity of oblivion. Oh you…I am.

Love letter # 422

Yes, I hear them. I know what they’re saying. I can even understand why they say it. But they don’t know. They have mistaken appearance for substance. Their judgement is coded in the beliefs they have about themselves. Their cynic’s wisdom is a cleverly clothed self-loathing. So do not worry, I hear them but do not believe. For you have shown me the beautiful paradox; and together we have discovered that the glory of the song lies between the notes. Our house is not made of walls…but of the space they map. Let them have their landmarks, their names and tags, their tiny, ring-fenced world. We can glimpse the more that isn’t more. The thing that isn’t a thing. The present that is always absent. We can leave it all behind, right now, and have everything in return.

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