Love letter # 17

Because I am no saint I can say this: I want you.

I have thought and felt intolerable things. I have bitten my tongue so hard my mouth has filled with blood. I have struggled with the weight of hunger – tried not to let it show.

By confessing this I am praying that you will kill the fantasy with firm unambiguous language. I see that ring you wear. I see those demure dresses. I know your skin is not for me.

But still I shiver at the thought of it – still I can almost taste it in the air between us. You are like the dream of country, the gorgeously undulating earth. You are the cool scent of waterfall in clammy forest air. You are the softness of yielding.

There have been moments, behind closed eyes … that wonderful mouth, those honey tresses unfurled.

I would not just speak for you – I would sing for you. But alas … the dream crashes to its end upon waking. So shake me, wake me, make me realise.

Maybe then I’ll get over it.

Advertisements

Love letter # 124

It would be much easier if I didn’t – but I do. For despite all my trying, all my regularly updated vows, I still sit in the place where we once lingered, vainly reaching across time, trying not to breath too loudly; lest the remnants be obscured.

In every room, the archaeological record, barely buried – the way you danced over there, how you softly sighed in here. In one envelope – a picture of you in that dress and the only two love letters you ever wrote. And that childlike painting tacked to the wall in my secret corner of you.

All of which brings me to this … you once said goodbye; and so now the wheel has turned and it has come time for me to break these things.

Time for me to say: it’s not you.

There is an old saying; it goes something like this: at the end of the summer remember that in a very short time it will be spring once more.

Tonight, I have walked amongst these dry old leaves and seen at last the chance of flowers. Thank you.

Love letter # 33

The lovers are the kings, the lonely are the cherished, the forgotten are the exalted. And the beggars shall live in the palace; and the mighty dwell amongst the ashes. And then the angels will walk with the fallen – the proof being you.

I do not know why you are down here with me – but you are – and I am uplifted. My dirty heart is clean in your hands; my rusted chains are gold. These rags; they are silk. This cell; it is liberty. And out of this silence; song.

When there is love in the world, hunger itself is plenty and the darkness is strewn with light. Where love makes its house, there are no slaves. And then, even the broken will see beauty once more – the proof being me.

Love letter # 76

There was a moment; that second when you … and in that beat my fear turned to brightness, my resolve gave way to keening. You cut the brake lines. You sent me shooting through space.

I was a willing sucker. I wanted it. I sang for the rushing of blood. I begged for the horses to be set free. I called forth the wildness – and that’s where you stepped in.

You are the untamed ocean. You are the promise of rain. I was a desert, thirsty for the return of the sky.

You fed me a flood. I duly drowned.

In the resulting sea of flowers I call out your name, a dazed croak in the vastness. It is said that in the middle of nowhere a single voice cannot be heard – but that won’t stop me.

I used to believe I knew music – now I’m a dancer. That no one else is watching is no reason to sit down. Even now … I still fly through the air for you.

Love letter # 19

It is though, at any moment, my secret will come hurtling out of me. The veneer I wear, the various masks I don to get through the day – they are cracked beyond repairing. When you stand next to me I have to hold my breath, bite my tongue until it bleeds.

And you don’t even realise, unless you too are a secret keeper of mad and improbable flames.

I have added up all the things I stand to lose – they amount to nothing. People speak of things like pride and appearance as if they actually meant something; but they are zero next to you. I could trash this whole stupid house of cards for the memory of an hour in your splendour.

Maybe you’ve heard all this before. Perhaps you have a cellar full of forlorn fools who threw it all down for you – after all, beauty makes arrogance kneel and hunger makes beggars of kings.

But fear not, I have lived long enough in silence to know that some things can barely be whispered. Look through me in the morning and I will know that you do not want to know. And who knows, I might even breathe a little easier afterwards. At least that way I’ll get to keep my imperial lies.

I am used to the grand falsehood; it is my world – although tonight I yearn for another. For this longing is my truth, this desire my open road. Say you will and I will throw away these keys and live under the heavens with you.

Be in no doubt, beautiful girl – I will if you will.

Love letter # 28

I am no saint; I know there were days when bitterness almost had me by the throat. I would listen to my fellow divorcees and I would share their complaints. But not for long – because I could not forget that things in our house were never that bad.

Yes, we ended. Yes, we bled. But no – we did not use the knives.

And now, years down the track, when certain things trigger me, I recall you with a warm buzz.

So much of me is you in trousers. The things I do, the food I buy, the bed I still sleep in. All that time we had – it didn’t just fade to nothing. Okay, so I no longer sport that band of gold – but I know where it is and some nights I hold it in the palm of my hand just to honour everything.

You married a boy but you left a man. In some ways I almost owe you my adulthood.

And of course, the biggest lesson was the end. Had to be really; because I took you for granted. I assumed you would always be there to open the door. I sure learned.

The empty hallway, the crushing quiet when I clicked out the light, the freezing cold space beside me. I thought some terrible things in that abrupt and awful vacuum.

Maybe now I’m wearing rosy glasses, forgetting the shit we both tried to deny, but I’d rather that than carry round a heart made of stone.

I’m not writing to woo you back or any such foolishness; I’m writing to honour you. To say a simple, if somewhat poetic thank you. The fact that we had it all, (or deluded ourselves that we did), keeps me from the common sourness.

You showed me the world in your eyes, in your incredible tenderness, and in doing so, you cut the chains.

I can but pray that I gave you something half as wonderful.