Love letter # 270

Today I was invisible. Sat there, pint in front of me, noise swirling around me, and the gaudy rush and bother of the party seemed to wash over me. I felt detached – unhinged from the world of warmth and recognition. I was just the lone man in the corner – the silly old fool who found himself thinking of you.

This is the freedom I fought for – my splendid isolation, my aloof lack of need. Here is my dead hunger, my self-containment in all of its solitary, untainted glory. The pristine loneliness that now conspires to empty me of breath and fill me with a space into which I can disappear.

And to think I left you for this.

My, how those heroic affirmations poured from my mouth. I fought you off with my language, boxed you up with my ideas. I confronted your honesty with an unholy disguise; and then when you were finally done I was left to walk around in the wafer thin garb of well-chosen words.

I would gladly admit to the lachrymose self-pity of the mistaken if that was what it was – but really I always knew that the bubble I called a thousand different things was just a bubble. I will not confess it to anyone else, but to you I can say that I find this so-called liberty an awfully lonely corner.

I gazed out at all those lovely, colourful people, heard the sweet burble of their conversation and was utterly and profoundly locked out from the world they moved in. Perhaps not in reality but in the much more visceral realm of my heart.

And I longed for the warmth that you so freely gave.

You were right. I just thought I was. You were real and this was the fantasy. Yet this, I am certain, is of no comfort to you. Love cannot be retrospectively applied, nor tears so easily wiped away – and anyway words have done enough damage already. Haven’t they?

Love letter # 134

Ah, summer dresses. Whoever it was designed them must have had my particular surrender in mind, so precisely am I unpicked by the scent of skin and sway. By what is hidden and what is shown – and by the beautiful way you move.

I cannot look at you in that dress and be unmoved. Cannot look you in the eye. Utter a single word. The ache of my wanting is both exquisite and cruel. I am on the rack of its ardour. Sometimes your beauty is more than I can bear.

So I come back to the cool of my room, safe from your splendour, and all of my love becomes a song – and it is as though an angel has followed me home and sat down beside me to type this up. And I can feel the light right through me.

Love letter # 242

In the end, I will leave with exactly what I came with; so I would like to spend some of that journey with you. It would make things brighter. There would be skin. And weakness. And splendour. And all other catechisms of purpose. Yet perhaps there is something quieter, something beneath the mighty clamour, which we may find one day, which is the true beauty we both seek.

Love letter # 356

Why? Because it feels so good to care. Because I am a fire when I love you. For when I am most animal, I am most angel – and to wrap my arms around you in the sweet quiet of the night is to seek an audience with the light. Because when I love you this way, everything is in its place – and beauty is everywhere.