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Love letter # 410

I am writing to thank you; but also to apologise. The latter is because I am breaking my silence, the former is because you give me the only reason to do so.

The bare truth of the matter is that our brief exchanges – your smiles, those hugs you give me, the touches – remind me. They are, shall we shall say, the solitary snowflakes of a barren season. They represent the only thing vaguely approaching the kind of attention that I have almost forgotten. For even if the effect melts away and is unintended, it is a beautiful dusting while it lasts.

But I am no fool, no mad hormonal fantasist. I know you are simply being friendly – but if sometimes I seem to lapse into a foggy bumbling clumsiness it is because when you are next to me my composure turns to slush. I think perhaps it is simply the fact of being seen, being even briefly selected, (so unusual of late), that breaches the wall of compromise I have so carefully constructed.

And really, here it is – the ‘why’ of this letter. It’s a plea to you and a warning for me. Not so close. Not unless.

But then again, maybe even that would be too much.

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Our love took place in silence

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Our love took place in silence, beneath the veil of uttering, in rooms unfurnished. It did not feed on the touch of skin, nor brightly burn with the fire of clutching mouths. It did not bloom as flowers, it did not wear the ring. There was no need of song, for we danced between the notes. Even sight did not behold, as neither light nor shadow fell; and our hands were left with nothing to hold; formless was our love. Known only by surrender. For our love was born in spaces, empty of everything but itself.

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Love letter # 442

For you I need look no further. You are in my blood, electricity in my fibres. You are made of the same sinew, and in the subsoil of my being you have grown to fruition.

When I am dancing, you are the animator. When I sing of love it is with your voice. When it matters, it is because of you.

If I once dreamt of you, now you are awakened inside me. Now I search no more; for you are evoked by simple thought. The world does not contain you, except that it contains me. You are no longer the other but instead are me, as I am also you. Two but one; one but two.

Like sand, lime, soda and fire – we have become glass, from which this mirror is carved. Dirt and flame, earth and star – blood and love. And thence, upon seeing…seen.

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Love letter # 691

I was the starving till you grew. I was the drifter, then you called. But I had an anchor, you had wings, hoping to light a path from here. Now we’re on a journey home, my love – to the sea where the islands meet and sleep. And there we will find we have everything … because nothing at all is everything.

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Love letter # 325

If you touch me I’m sure I will promptly dissolve. If you take me in your arms I may just break. That’s how it feels – almost asphyxiating in your presence, wondering where to look, what to do, how not to melt into a formless mess. You see this kind of thing in films, hear it in songs, but you never expect it to actually happen. At least not on this cynical planet. Not at my age. But then, who would have guessed that I’d meet someone like you.

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Love letter # 592

At the time I was blind. Just acting. Reacting. Blundering hurt and foolish. Doing things I never should. Saying stuff I didn’t really mean. Or now wish that I hadn’t.

Because I felt out of control I tried to impose a form of control on you. All the usuals: blackmail, pity seeking, stubborn refusals and vulgar displays of faux generosity. I was like a child; and although I knew it, I could not seem to find the lever or the gumption to stop. No wonder you burnt me off. If I first thought you cruel for doing so, now I see how patient you were. How you kept your powder dry.

Perhaps, for a while, I wallowed in the drama of self-loathing – drunk on the lurid spectacle of hating myself – but I have recently emerged from this pantomime of righteousness. Indeed, my sending you this missive of acceptance and apology is really me forgiving myself. Seeking the absolution of mirrors.

I think it’s fair to say that I loved you, but now maybe I love you more. Because now, finally, I am able. Therefore, I can honestly say sorry that my folly came at such a cost for you. In my self-obsession I stroked the ego of my suffering; yet all the while it was you who wore the bruises. You who quit the scene with the weight of further disappointments. Though I cannot undo these things, I can at least now shoulder my fair share of the outcome.

You may say that even this is little more than the self-serving theatrics of sentiment; and you may well be right. Who knows, next year I might look back at this and cringe. But today, as I write, it truly does feel as though I mean it. In the end, that’s all I can hope to offer you.

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