Love letter # 353
The way she looks up at him as they walk along. How he basks in her attention. Their secret tongue. The manner of their touching. The lustre of a private vision in their eyes. All the beautiful details of their moving together. This is what I want to share with you.
Love letter # 418
It has taken until now for me to write and send a love letter. There was never really any point before; not for someone like me. Not for the awkward, unattractive kid. Not for the one with glasses and blotchy skin. Not for the man without the flash of wealth or the shimmer of apparent success. It may sound defeatist, even corny, but guys like me get routinely overlooked. I cannot even recall the last time a woman showed the merest flicker of interest.
Why am I telling you this? Am I out for a pity fuck?
Maybe that’s what you’ll assume – I can’t control that – but the truth is that you of all women I have met in the last few years suggest something other than the normal ‘friend zone’ confinement and outright scorn that I have become used to. Perhaps it’s you who will finally see past the immediacy of my supposed ugliness, you who isn’t dazzled by the shiny object alpha, you who won’t insist on the ludicrous hero myth.
I am taking this risk because … well, apart from having nothing much to lose, I would love it if your warmth and kindness, if our connection, was real. Not just a token act of convenient civility. Not simply a cup of tea. Something more. Deeper, more shot through with fire. With recognition.
In order to ask this, to put this out there, I am of course prepared to sacrifice what we already have. To witness your vague disgust. To be summarily dismissed. None of this will kill me – it’s what I’m used to – but if you should break the mould I would show you how to fly.
Love letter # 584
I look around – pugilistic presidents and pitchfork mobs, demagogues and ideologues – and it seems easy to retreat. After all, humanity is just the latest apex predator awaiting immolation and extinction. Poking phones and pouring plastic into sea. Shopping till the sky caves in. Jamming up the cave with junk. Marketing the multi-coloured lobotomy of their own destruction. This year’s must-consume suicide smoothie! But then I look at you.
Then I watch your sway. Flick of your hair. Lustre of your skin. The blood warm magnetism of your sinewy sculpture. And I remember the taste of your heat on my tongue. The urgent power of your hunger. The crush of ecstatic release.
Here then is my haven. The valley after the peak. The quiet begat by maelstrom. The simple sanctuary of the gaze that truly sees. The uncluttered interstice, where beauty may be beheld and we ourselves may once again be beheld as beautiful.
For it is not the abstraction of a bipedal simian swarm that moves me – nor their shiny fetish objects and narrative fantasies – but the tensile strength of your hand. The bony twine of your fingers. This is why I’m still in the room. Because you are the proof.
Love letter # 457
It was at a wedding. Ten years ago, I think. At some point that day I realised that I loved you; or at least, that my thoughts kept drifting back to you at every moment when I wasn’t directly engaged. I woke the next morning feeling empty, knowing what was missing. Not merely your presence, your closeness, your touch – but what those things represented.
Now I know what it means to be known. To be recognised, to belong. To see another and, in that unerring reflection, to gaze upon the truth of self. Sometimes I experience this as a kind of music; at others as a mode of silence – yet always as the humbling liberation of formless beauty. The freedom that lies beyond the restriction of names. The unity awaiting us outside of the empire of I.
There is no thanks I can either utter or scribe that can fully contain the wave of gratitude I feel when I ponder this hinge in my life. I think back to that wedding, to that time, and I picture you, just around the corner. Waiting for me to notice.