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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.

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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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Love letter # 642

You are doubtless wondering why I haven’t made a move on you. Perhaps you think I am not interested, or that I don’t ‘bat for your team’. Neither is true.

The fact is, I have dreamt of your touch for months now. I have imagined all manner of scenarios in which we are lovers. More than that, deeply, richly and fantastically in love. All the usuals; and maybe even a little more.

Now, I realise, you could think me a coward. This may indeed be true. I would call it prudence. Caution. Terror. I look back on the record and see a string of false starts, busted hearts and numerous no’s, and something inside me shivers. It’s like vertigo. Every instinct screaming at me to stop. Self-preservation kicking in big time. I know this means I’m missing out on the chance for something extraordinary – but until now I have been prepared to wear this cost.

Besides which, don’t we already know that this romance thing is hormonal fantasy; that the rom-com model of love everlasting is tissue box bullshit? Why would any sane person seek to measure themselves against such a ridiculous standard?

So, whenever I am awash with you, (which is often), I ask myself this question: what could possibly make this one any different? I have crashed at the altar of this promise so many times that I am effectively apostate. To be a pilgrim once more seems like a ritual of self-punishment. I mean, why would I?

You might say this is simply a well-articulated defence. A form of excuse. I will not deny that both are factoring into my decision to send you this letter. Partly, it is also true that I am hedging, trying to smoke you out. Reduce the gut churn. Save the fingernails.

I know it’s a little sneaky doing it this way; and I apologise for not making my feelings known either earlier or in the grand romantic fashion. But please, understand that even this is like jumping off a cliff for me. Because it could all end right here. Or begin.

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Love letter # 446

I try not to look, even though I can; though you make it easy.

Are you unconscious of your beauty or are you aware that the sight of you is unravelling? Is this display of skin and form and flickering gesture an act, a game, or is it simply you? Am I meant to respond, to be nearly out of breath, or is it a trap? Will I be the next sexist – the umpteenth objectifier – or merely an arsonist’s blazing victory? The cinders of a smiling routine. Notch in your belt of suckers.

I ask all this because of the times; because of all the other stuff that gets in the way. And because I’m scared. Terrified this will blow off my hands, reduce me once more to a wreck. Once it was easy to desire – now it is like teetering on an edge. Love and hunger and deep fascination used to come naturally, as from a spring to a river to a welcoming sea. Today they are queered by memory and caution, tangled up in politeness and politics. Now I am paralysed, perhaps crucified – for I have marvelled at your beauty and swooned to the swish of your passing. I have even dreamt. Daringly so.

Yet here now, with these words, my biggest risk. You will read this and, shortly thereafter, I will have my answer. Tomorrow I will see it in your eyes, or worse, in quiet withdrawal. Or you will astound me, and I won’t feel so clamorous and exposed for writing.

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Love letter # 427

A stray thought. Years stretch out, a yawn of time. You were eighteen then – and I was a fool. Together, we had little to no idea about anything. And yet, the soft landing of tenderness, like tentative footprints in powdery sand, has left its dusted outline. The shape of desire. Of youthful intoxication. Of misplaced hope. And of the ticking…incremental, inexorable. The brutality of memory. The mercy of forgetting. All this and more; wrapped up in the beauty of echoes. Like a faintly resounding bell, whispering in waves, having traversed an ocean to get here.

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Love letter # 354

Time may well erode my memory of you but not how I remember. I have already forgotten the sound of your voice, the curve of your waist, the scent of your freshly washed skin. In truth, I can barely picture you now, let alone recall the soft weight of your touch. The factual traces are scarce. Only the bias of tenderness remains.

Is it an illusion to think of you thus? The common folly of nostalgia – the edge and the grit worn smooth – edited by years and foolish yearnings? Indeed, to think of you at all, with even a scintilla of fondness, maybe regarded as a form of poetic madness. Yet what beauty lives inside this wistful distemper. What subtle glory dwells in the act of blurred futility. For sometimes it is the knave who stumbles, lost and longing, upon the unlikely nook where treasure lies – disguised, yet still able to catch a sparkle of the remnant light.

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Love letter # 413

It’s like one of those Phil Spector, Wall of Sound, girl group songs. Rapturous, romantic, almost innocent. Such an intense swoon. An immense wave of light headed ecstasy. Heart like those crashing drums, blood buzzed with overwhelming electricity. I could dance all night. Maybe forever. As long as you are near.

So yeah – that’s what it feels like with you. Like leaves will never fall and fanciful dreams turn out true. As if, in the blink between the blissed out beats, nothing is beyond us – and we are young again and everything is laid out plain as day, all the while the sweet songs play. For we are like the needle poised, ready to spin and soar and be alive.

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