Love letter # 420

Hey, this might be little more than a ‘friends with benefits’ thing but we can call it love if we want. After all, it is just a word, a symbol of something shared between people, an indicator of something more special than the merely average or convenient. Sure, we can shy away from it if you like, if its association with adolescent fantasy and/or the various ‘isms’ and ‘ologies’ bothers you, but I for one am ready to use the so-called L bomb. Because really, when I strip out the external noise, I do love you; if that’s an okay thing to confess these days.

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Love letter # 532

I walked into a fire to be with you – and now I live in the river of indescribable beauty. I tore off the hinges to let you in, so that you might lay ruin to my kingdom. At your golden behest, I reached up to the canopy of heaven, only for it to rain until there was nothing else left. Yet I did not take shelter. Made no effort to swim. Would not pluck the knife from my heart. For the rush of my blood was the swoon of your name. And all the broken pieces…they had fallen from your hands. Yet had I done what everyone told me – what they would do – all I would have is a busted resolve, dried up and mild. Dead inside. Instead of this. Which is a form of euphoria. For which there is no way to thank you, other than to let it flow. And to be swept into the sea.

Love letter to the girl in the beautiful dress

I noticed you earlier in town. I was idling over a long black, not really doing anything, when you emerged from the city throng, like a vessel long ensnared beneath, afloat at last. Bathed in light.

We did not speak. Nary a glance was passed between us. You just sat nearby, took out a notebook and, deep in thought, scratched out whatever was on your mind. Nothing spectacular. No toss of a golden mane. No curvaceous swagger. But oh what a beautiful dress you had on.

In truth, this is what I noticed first. The gorgeous flow of light floral patterned material. Hem just above the knee. Showing off your lovely form, accenting the cool alabaster of your skin and the lustrous sable of your long hair. Truly, you cut such an elegant figure; so subtle, with a femininity refined and assured. How you stood out from the parade, floated above the commonplace slurry of fashion trash. Such a glorious, understated enigma.

And then, a few minutes later, your task complete, you got up, paused as though to take stock, and walked away. Within thirty seconds I had lost track of you, the fleeting vision of your grace, subsumed once more. The girl in the beautiful dress – swallowed by the drab, city street heave.

Of course, you will never know. Truth is, you will likely never think again of those slow minutes this afternoon, when your pen moved in swirls and the eye of the beholder was entranced. You just went about your day, never knowing that, hours later, a trace of your splendour would still be flowering in the heart and the fancy of a man you will never know. That the mere sight you, in that simple, fetching dress has left the imprint of beauty on the world.