Author: Paul Ransom
-
Love letter # 144
I notice the space. Quiet vacancy. The calm of time. Yet I see these things with you still in them. Just a trace. The scent of a single flower. How great it was to love you.
-
VIDEO: Love letter # 15
On November 28, 2010, we first posted Love Letter # 15 to this blog. Like the site itself, it was inspired by a woman we had loved madly. At the time of its original uploading, she and I were still (rarely) in contact. The fire had died; or rather, it was one-sided. An inferno in…
-
Love letter # 536
I am writing to thank you. This may seem counter-intuitive, perhaps even smug. If so, I apologise. There is much I do not know, and will likely never know. Maybe you are unsure yourself. All we can be sure of is that you walked out one day and never came back. Went silent. Ghosting, I…
-
Love letter # 60
In the bright eye of early afternoon I think of lightness. Later, in the smoky shade of evening, I contemplate remnants; things I have carried for years, like the weight of your touch.
-
Love letter # 236
It’s true, things could have gone differently. We both made poor choices, acted out of pain. In the end it was a mess. Yet, always within reach, the love that uplifted, that promised to redress everything. As much as we made it our excuse, it gave us flight. When we were close, truly together, we…
-

Careful, you may be having an impact
Even in our shared anonymity, we are all someone Words & images © Paul Ransom Old love letters…so long buried in a box of mementos, for years unread, forgotten. Until – triggered by an upcoming house move and the consequent desire to offload surplus clutter – I rediscover them. For a few seconds I contemplate…
-
Love letter # 2509
Yesterday, when we knew everything, nothing could stop us. Ours was the miracle unfolding. Today, we persist in ordinary orbit. No longer at the centre of things. Not wild, not cool, not defiant. We are no one’s idea of anything. Yet, even in our unromantic waking, a kind of dream. A slow, grey yearning.…
-
Love letter # 737
It is the people who claim to know you that have the least idea. Hypocrite that I am, I tell myself you understand this; that I sense it in your remove. Your covert fire. We met outside the lines, away from the party. In our exile, we knew. Not like them. That. Yet still they…
