Love letter # 400

When I was there I could never have imagined being here. Now was not conceivable then. There was us. There was that. When a thing is burning – it is burning.

And now: remnants. Things that once were. Not even bones – just ash. And silence.

I look for your mark on me and find it faded. I have almost sweated you out. A few last drops. I think I can make it.

For you will always be inside me – you’re a part of who I am. Your voice is one of mine. When I am dancing – you are singing. And when I am flying I see your feathers.

Love letter # 131

I came down in the rain to make this garden bloom for you. I swam across the sea to walk in this desert with you. I fell from the sky to stand beside you in the mountain air. I travelled through the terrors of time to be here now.

Whatever dream I woke from, you were what I found.

Did I have reason? Maybe. I don’t know anymore. It matters not; because now you are here. You hold my breath, you open my eyes, you are like the fire in my blood.

In the moment when I am overwhelmed by you I am uplifted. I surrender to be free. I crawl to be exalted. If there is a temple, it is this. It is the kiss you give me.

You have made dust out of my kingdom, stones out of my glory. You took my conceit and made it into love. Once there was a tower – now there is a song.

I came back from the dark to live in your light. I threw out the jewels to live in your treasure. And there is nothing so simple as this. Just you … and the air we both breath.

You might whisper – but I will always hear it.

Love letter # 160

What starts as a whisper ends in silence. Where there is a seed, dry leaves. I did not see you coming but I know I will bleed when you go.

The ghosts of the future are hovering in the lighted dust, portentous little sighs. Even in the thrill of this, their hatchlings are playing.

It’s true – we are in the springtime, everywhere fruit and flowers, the world lighted up. But we know what comes next. We have each watched charm turn to anger, summer to awful shivers.

I look at you now and I feel like I could crack open the order of things just to make the autumn shine like this. When this wonderful romance grows old I pray that it blossoms into love. There must be somewhere between tired and inspired where we can be happy. Let’s look for that place. We may as well.

For is it not loving better than its alternative?

Love letter # 104

You came towards me in the coldness, in the warmth you went away. In the night, you slept beside me; in the day you drained away.

You never meant to – that much I’m sure – but the light shone regardless and all was transformed. You only wanted a kiss, not all this. But you were all the beauty in the world. And I was all eyes.

You were everything once, now there’s something else. Open doors. Rooms that fill with light. You knocked the walls down and now I’m free to breathe. And the cool air passes through me; surrendered, on my knees. Bending – not breaking. Alive.

You never knew it – but the thing you tried to keep from me was the greatest gift you gave. You asked me not to love you, so I learned to love instead. And it’s magnificent. Thank you.

Love letter # 155

Now that we find ourselves here I’ve had to ask myself: what does it mean that I still love you? – because experience tells me that love is often what we settle for. I see all your cracks, your quirks, your blatant inconsistencies. And you see mine. There is nothing heroic about us; we are just children growing old.

But what of this inevitable slide – is it really that bad?

Suppose instead of wishing you perfect I just love you how you are; accept imperfection as the price for offering it in return? We could simply love each other because. Does that sound like a plan?

I guess it’s either that or … and I don’t want or.