Love letter # 385

There is a scene that has remained with me. It is autumn, the air is turning damp. The light a misty gold. We are standing outside your house. You smile at me. Kiss me politely. It is a promise. I float into the gathering night. I adore you.

But it goes no further …

Years later, on a cold foggy morning I stare into the veil of winter and it is as if you are still there, waiting on the kerb for me to return. And as this fog lifts I begin to understand with hard finality that that was the moment – you there, within reach, your lush mouth, the smell of you, and the tumble of your hair. Everything that was going to be – but never was.

I know that I could rise up with this mist, dissolve back into the invisible, let go this tenuous hold. No, not despair. Not regret. Rather, calmness. Completion. The angel has looked upon me – and I have stood beside her. I smile at the feel of the sun as it burns off the dewy shroud and the wispy remainders of you melt away to the banality of another ordinary day. Although perhaps you will later fall as rain.

Then … words. These. Your beauty, my longing. Time. The creak of aged bones. The space between memory and acceptance. Those few seconds when we stood so close. The silent certainty after your kiss.

And of course, what came after.





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