FREE LOVE LETTERS

Author: Paul Ransom

  • Love letter # 525

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    by

    Paul Ransom
    in

    Lately, I have dreamt of angels; most of them resembling you.

  • Letter to my misremembered sweetheart

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    by

    Paul Ransom
    in ,

    It is clear. I remember you hazily. Incorrectly. Does this matter? In my reconfiguring of us, much of the contradictory truth has been reduced to official fiction. Again, what of it? If I imagine you falsely, and my retrospective editing hurts no one, scarcely even me, what value exactness? Am I not better to love…

  • Love letter # 539

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    by

    Paul Ransom
    in ,

    5:47pm. It is the precise colour of my love for you. The angle of the light is just about cutting me in two. The irrecoverable years. The distance of my inability to say. The distance of your other life. I take solace in present company. Sunlight on a solitary stem of wild grass. The bustle…

  • Love letter # 959

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    by

    Paul Ransom
    in

    You. In those sunglasses. In that lovely black dress. In my room. Me. Beside you. Within you. Lost. We two. A singular choreography. Like solo piano. Dusk and vapour. Breath and dissolving. You in the half light. Me revealed.    

  • Love letter # 508

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    by

    Paul Ransom
    in

    There is a well known prayer attributed to St Francis. Though I do not believe in personality gods or seek the purported wisdom of holy books, there are a few lines that resonate. Not seek to be consoled, as to consoleTo be understood, as to understandTo be loved, as to loveFor it’s in giving that…

  • He knows where I am

    He knows where I am

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    by

    Paul Ransom
    in

    He sings to me. His voice, I hear it in the aching grind of the earth’s steady turn. It calls to me from the radio, seeking me out, a cat in the shadows that never pounces. This gives me hope. I’m a cynical bitch most times. I believe in nothing, but I play the game…

  • Love letter # 634

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    by

    Paul Ransom
    in ,

    I don’t mean this to sound like obsession…but I still think of you. Not in words, or in imagined scenes, but with a strange kind of sensing. Muscle memory perhaps. Something unconscious. It is as though there is a door in space and time through which I can pass in a blink, one that brings…

  • Unnoticed

    Unnoticed

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    by

    Paul Ransom
    in

    He used to have a life. Wife. But it wasn’t good enough. He’d lay in bed next to her wondering about other possibilities. Looking over the fence. She’s gone now, and so has he. Gone off the rails. Gone to pot. Smoking every day. Getting wasted and rolling round the city on countless little sorties.…

  • The season of bare shoulders

    The season of bare shoulders

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    by

    Paul Ransom
    in

    Isabelle remembers when he used to look like that, when the sight of his chest made her draw breath deeply, like drinking, and her hunger sighed in her, ancient and strong. There was a time when Elliot could not see past her, when the mere whisper of her skin deafened him to everything else, and…

  • Love letter # 522

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    by

    Paul Ransom
    in

    Last night, dreaming, I was in your arms. I felt the satin warmth of you. Your pressing solidity. This morning, awake, I wonder which is closer to truth. Conscious distance or REM embrace? When you return this afternoon, how shall I meet your eye? What, if anything, shall I see in your gaze? Do I…