All posts by Paul Ransom

Love letter # 38

Before you were someone else’s wife, before I was a ruin, we were children.

You are a distant angel, carved out of memory. It seems impossible that you are now only half an hour away – that you will be seated across from me. I will walk in that door, I will spot you, you will smile. Maybe you will brush your hand across the back of mine.

I never said it then – I never could. The words got mired in my dread. I adored you.

Okay, it was a hormonal teenage thing – but even now I can feel it in my body. It is a tide. It is the ocean itself.

I’ve seen your picture online – I know what the years do to a beautiful face. But I wonder – do the years put out fires? Perhaps we just retreated into the surrounding dark and left the embers glowing. Perhaps this is the morning.

Forgive me if I get ahead of myself. I bear no expectation – it’s simply that the long silent sweetness wants to whisper through the tiny cracks, to at least exhale its tender treasure.

And that is what is this letter is for. I hope that I have courage to give it to you.

There – I said it.

Love letter # 7

… and in a blinding, beautiful flash – you.

You have changed me. Perhaps you did not mean to – but you have. Not that I was bad before – just a fool who knew nothing. Now at least I am a fool who knows you.

Everything is clear now – if a little raw. The light is sharp sometimes. The heights are airless. And flying always contains the lure of falling. But those who will not fly are grounded. They have the dirt and nothing more.

Even if I am left with only the memory of you it will be a good deal more than old rock. For sure, it will be diamonds.

Love letter # 5

The afternoon light at this time of year – it is the colour of your splendour.

Like rattling up the hill in the old train, waiting outside for your flatmate to leave. Sneaking in. Springtime on the back porch. You right there. Me scarcely able to believe it.

Every year the flowers make me sneeze. Make me swoon.

Was that ever us? Beggars living on sunlight. Did you lie in the middle of the road and let me photograph you? Were you my star?

I remember your bare, painted toes. I can almost hear the sound of your blinking. Somewhere on my skin your fingertip traces – writing out the story; words like lovely scars. Memory is a curious calligrapher. I’m sure it exaggerates – but God it’s beautiful.

And then, when I play my guitar, I swear I can hear the sound of you dancing along, your breath in rhythm. Yes – you are the song of desire. Always will be.

There will never not be you – no matter how it seems. Winter is no refusal of spring.

I know that we once made beauty together – we still can. Tomorrow is ours to render splendid.

Would you like that?