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.

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