Love letter # 489
You were in my dreams all night. I woke up with your beautiful dark eyes sparkling at me – and I was reminded of the person I came to know in private; the tender, vulnerable, passionate one. The one who is bursting with love.
Yet of course we both know this is not the you we see in public. That version of you pushed me away. Drew blood from me. Tried to score points on me. Pretended not to care. So much so that I responded by closing the door on you. And rightfully so.
Last night though, in the alternative universe of the dream, I was with you in your tiny flat and your façade had melted and you were you again – and I was as in love with you as I ever was.
Beneath the ridiculous self-defeating masks we all wear there is something much more glorious than pride and achievement and image. Perhaps I am being foolishly optimistic to think that we might ever let this reign in our waking hours – but in my dreams I was reminded that my love for you is burning like a star. That it is a kind of light.
We may have opted for shadows but those brilliant beams still shine – and they are pouring from my heart this morning in a heady, delirious rush. Making their way back to you, babe.
The mundane so often reveals itself to be a quiet form of the profound. Like yesterday. Sitting watching a simple scene – a disjointed gathering of strangers at a café. It was as if I could see it all being played out unwittingly before me.
In one corner, a group of girls – young women in their early twenties – so full of easy confidence, so loud with the certainties of youth, so utterly assured of their attractiveness.
Two tables away, an Asian couple in their thirties with their adorable cherub in her stroller. The way the man doted on his girls. How the mother glowed when she stroked the child’s beautiful black locks.
Next to them – another couple. Older. Silent. Both prodding away at their phones, barely giving a flicker of notice to the waitress delivering their lattes. A tiredness it seemed – a routine resignation to a less than perfect but still comfortable arrangement. The fear of not having it.
And then – landing on the table next to me – the silver grey man who made the whole scene burn. A taut, unrelaxed frame. Drab utilitarian clothes; doubtless the same non-style he’s known for decades. But his face. His gaze. At the distance of despair. In the certainty of loneliness. Knowing that the table of young girls had not even registered his existence – and would not. Ever.
Of course, you know that this is why I’m writing. He was the mirror. A window abruptly opened on an emptiness I try not to ponder too often. The space you once coloured with wonder.