Love letter # 455

Why do I love you? What is it that makes me put you first? Why, of everyone, is it you – and what drew you to choose me? Do we mirror one another? Validate each other? Have we agreed on a mutual fantasy? Does it matter?

When I look around what I see is a world plagued with viral selfishness; humanity engaged in a short-sighted suicidal spiral of hubris, fear and control. Destroying each other for pride and possessions. For petty gods and gold dust. Little wonder you are my harbour. My village quietly tucked away, out of the line of fire.

Have we built a wall around us? Are we in hiding? Is our love a kind of morphine? When I kiss you, does the pain go away? Shall I let the madness clamour on because in the stillness of the night you will enfold me once more? Are we blind, such that we may love?

When I think of us I see children. We come together in make believe to play the game of belonging. We build forts in the garden with sweet words and fine intentions. We hold the rest of the world at bay with our tender, tenuous faith. We look into each other’s eyes because what we see there is what we most want to. Ourselves as innocent.

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Love letter # 387

It’s the fall of your hair. The lustrous cascade of it. The gorgeous wave it has. Those golden highlights. More than just beautiful; borderline majestic. For when you free it from its workaday constraint and it flows like a sparkling river of light, I too am simply swept along. As though I were a strand, dancing to the cool cadence of your stride, or a melody line in the beguiling and ever mysterious hymn you sing to the higher ideal. That such a simple thing should somehow offer hints of the unfathomable often leaves me speechless – with nothing left to understand; only that I love you.

Love letter # 405

Sometimes, it’s true, I wish I had never met you; but then I count up all the blessings that flowed from the destructive path that your advent tore through the city of my complacency and I am truly thankful. My dissolving at your touch was without doubt the most far reaching and ultimately affirming experience of my adult life. If I once cursed your name I whisper it now like incantation. If you were the lighter of fires, I have become the shaper of cinders. From the deluge you heralded: the river, the flood plain, the sustaining bounty. Thanks heavens I met you.

Love letter # 351

Suppose I loved you in a way that wasn’t hearts and flowers; that did not accord with the staples of Western romance? Would you still recognise it? What if I never said that I wanted you to be mine, or I yours? If I never ask you to marry me or speak of us as a couple, or refer to you as my girl, will it still feel like love to you?

I only ask because I am wondering if we mistake the trappings and rituals for the thing itself. Do we reduce our love to spectacle? To signs? Indeed, does it make any sense to speak of love without some form of display, without the act of loving? For it may well be that the love unshown is the love unknown. That love is more than a pristine idea.

So, how can we do the love most truly, without the distortions that the fear of breaking so often manifest or the kitsch of chocolates? This, lover, is our challenge. Are you ready?