Love letter # 310

The way you looked at me yesterday – eyes like a question – your outbreath slowed, lips slightly parted – I wonder do you share this hunger? Is this our folie à deux?

I know that there are all kinds of theories for this, from gushing adolescent fancy to the Wal-Mart spirituality of bourgeois denial and the dry nihilist mechanisms of evolution … but right now they are all just after thoughts. For now is desire. No, not just wanting, not merely sexual; a longing so dense and physical that it has swept away the niceties of explanation. Even the flowers of song are trampled.

This is gravity and I am falling. Plummeting. It is a pull in my gut. A blaze in my bloodlines. A hook inside me. Resist and I shall be torn. Surrender and I shall be drawn.

I have no idea where this where end. With you, I hope. With you.

Love letter # 1418

Now the distance uncrossable. Here the worthless keepsakes, dusted with the film of years. Now the vastness of time. This the deep quiet that separates us. These the gestures, the thousand follies. This the going through the motions. I the act. Everything ritual. Take a step, then another. Smile. Be nice. Pretend. Forgive them their trespasses. Try not to acknowledge the undeniable fact.

Now that I have been to edge of you, seen the shadows thrown by your shining, beheld the awesome emptiness your eye describes, heard the silence that is the beauty of your song – I walk amongst this clutter of noise and ceremony as a stranger. Here, but not here. Out in the immensity with you. In the realm of the infinite nothing. In the ecstasy of your completeness. How I could disappear with you, my love. How I could disappear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love letter # 385

There is a scene that has remained with me. It is autumn, the air is turning damp. The light a misty gold. We are standing outside your house. You smile at me. Kiss me politely. It is a promise. I float into the gathering night. I adore you.

But it goes no further …

Years later, on a cold foggy morning I stare into the veil of winter and it is as if you are still there, waiting on the kerb for me to return. And as this fog lifts I begin to understand with hard finality that that was the moment – you there, within reach, your lush mouth, the smell of you, and the tumble of your hair. Everything that was going to be – but never was.

I know that I could rise up with this mist, dissolve back into the invisible, let go this tenuous hold. No, not despair. Not regret. Rather, calmness. Completion. The angel has looked upon me – and I have stood beside her. I smile at the feel of the sun as it burns off the dewy shroud and the wispy remainders of you melt away to the banality of another ordinary day. Although perhaps you will later fall as rain.

Then … words. These. Your beauty, my longing. Time. The creak of aged bones. The space between memory and acceptance. Those few seconds when we stood so close. The silent certainty after your kiss.

And of course, what came after.

Love letter # 461

Of course this is a bit ridiculous. I mean, it’s so out of step with the modern age, isn’t it? – all this still loving you after all this time. I can almost see the look in your eyes, the shake of your head. Why don’t you just stop!?

Why don’t I just stop what? Thinking of you with tenderness? Feeling that incredible wave that first came over me when we were together? Understanding the irreversible knowing of love?

I know, I know – but what is love? Isn’t it just a kind of poetic selfishness, a euphemism for hormones and evolutionary imperatives? Maybe it’s those things as well, I wouldn’t doubt it, but here’s what it also is – for me at least. It’s that breathtaking connection; the one makes it seem, just for a moment, like you are breaking from the cell of the ego and really seeing the other and, in that, something profound about the nature of self.

So of course I still love you – how could I not? I still love all those who wandered into this channel, who opened the floodgates. The teenage siren of misty eyed memory, the undergraduate beauty I swore I wanted to die for, my ex-wife … and you, the one who blew the covers off everything.

I’m saying this to you now just in case. Because we never really ended, did we – it was just that drifting apart was easier, more sensible. The terrain never burned, it just got vacated. Left behind like something a little too difficult.

I fully get why this might appear absurd, even a bit crazy, but the kind of thing we had makes it worth the risk. Maybe I want you to unequivocally say it – the last rites and all that – but what I really wanted say was this: the light is still so dazzling and beautiful and humbling some days that I would rather risk the shuddering finality of no than the unbearable idea of if only.

Love letter # 344

On a short break, lingering at the café I usually go to, and all I can think of is you. The colour of the sky, the edges of chill in the pools of shade, the goldening of leaves. Just like the autumn of our wanting all over again. The promise not quite realised. The moment having passed.

Why did we never walk across that space? How did the gravity between us fail to pull us into collision? What manner of terror kept us from having what we both desired?

I used to shatter awake, bursting out of dreams straight into thoughts of you. I could smell you in the air. In those days you were all around me. That glorious fall of our longing. The very nearly season. The almost hour.

And right now, in this hour – the blue of afternoon so deep and rich, the remains of summer ever paler and cooler – I am in your sway once more. As though you were across from me, smiling that smile of yours; and all I can feel is the tremor of ancient madness. The dammed up distemper of almost touching you.

I drink my black coffee in your honour and look at the empty seat opposite.

Later, I will reflect on this, ask myself why this ghost still hovers. It’s not as though the years have not been filled with other loves, with all kinds of distraction. But I already know the reason. For I have tasted many things, ‘cept the sweetness of your limbs.

Love letter # 470

It doesn’t take much. Just your name. Spoken, thought of or written down. Four letters to let loose the storm. To break the night open. Smash the atoms. Destroy the ramparts of denial. For you are the end of my arrogance and the beginning of my nakedness. You are the eviscerating force that reduces bullish language to supplicant sound. If, before you, I was noise and colour and pomp, with your kiss I was quietened. In your hands, made humble. With your love, unleashed.