Love letter # 637

You are so beautiful I can barely look at you. I am literally physically affected. Deep stirring occurs – lust yes, but also more than that, a longing to care and protect. God, even to adore. As though via some extraordinary mechanism of gravity you could usher a river from me. And this is both wonderful and terrifying. For you could break me with a flicker of an eyelid. This is why I hold my breath. Look down at the ground. Because beauty is a star that blinds – burns – and I do not know if I am ready once again to be the man of cinders.

Love letter # 403

In my fantasy this is how it goes: I post this and somehow you read it – and of course you know right away. After all, what else could it be? Who but you? Who but me? Because we were both there when there was nothing else. When the whole of existence seemed to pivot on our touch. When we found ourselves at the centre of everything and the wave we made rippled outwards, washing the whole world with our loving. Or whatever else people chose to call that holy flood.

You could argue that it wasn’t love – you could even say there is no such thing. In the end, it might just be a word. A sound we make when we refer to that particular form of longing, that sense of connection, of seeing the other and being truly visible in return. To a universe without semantic distinction. Or the walls that normally stand between us. From this vantage, it matters not what language we wrap around it – only that it was. That it was forged by us. Made of an electricity that overwhelmed us both. That made us high. Brought us low.

The details of the drama don’t matter either. Time has scrubbed them back to a lustre. Distance has rendered them tiny. But oh my love … how the light still moves every atom in my body. Even when the darkness is pitch. And how the vision remains – its colours like crystal. Yes, I breathe in and you are next to me. I shiver, and it is the buzz of instant recognition. No, not even memory – but presence.

Who knows what kind of fire we started. Perhaps it makes no difference to know one way or the other. Maybe it was the star of our unknowing. A flower opening just beyond our conscious understanding. The benign and terrible mystery of a realm beyond the I. The pulsing, beating signal of our ultimate unbecoming. The great and impassive ocean in which we are all dissolved.

I have no neat answers – no pre-packaged wisdom to declare or meme friendly inspiration to share. All I have to say today is that something has travelled across the years, outlasted disenchantment, survived the erosion of faulty recall, and it has reached me intact. Alive. Sublime. Can you feel it still? Is it there with you too?

Something we create – or encounter – when we love each other as we did does not founder upon the reef of human flaw. For it is standing my hairs on end right now. It is why I am writing this. So that wherever you are and whatever may ail you, you can know without a beat of doubt that the love I helped you conjure from thin air is always there with you. Barely even a thought away. Here. Now.

Love letter # 428

Truth be told, you would be better advised not to be so friendly, not to sit so close, not to smile like that. You are playing with fire and whilst you will have your fingertips singed my entire world will burn to the ground. Your beauty, combined with your attentions, your habit of openness and closeness, will make an inferno of my calm. Wreckage of my sensible perspective.

I am on the verge of loving you utterly – wanting you absurdly – and I would much rather not. I have nothing to gain from pointlessly adoring your unattainable body or from ridiculously pursuing your greater affection.

Please, if this is anything more than a game to you, allow me my space. Surely you do not require the validation of my aging hunger – the ego boost of yet another fool tumbling at your feet.

So before I dare to seriously dream of a kiss that we both know will never land – a fantasy that will quickly morph into a nightmare – do not lean so close next time. Do not lay your hand on me. Avert those shining eyes.

Though it may be hard to accept that I will never know the warm velvet of your skin, it would be far harder to believe that one day I might. Show me that your love is impossible. Make it plain that even in a thousand years your lips will not taste mine. Every fibre in my animal body wants to strain for you but my heart knows better. And so do you.

Let’s hit pause now – because after a certain point there is no rewind.

 

 

 

Love letter # 319

Solstice. Winter. The darkness in its pomp. The daylight shivering. So far from you. Wanting so much to lie upon the damp earth and be consumed. To sink into the soil, feed the naked trees. Give my life to something greater. Greater than my futile pride. More beautiful than my ridiculous vanity. Something like the love that still lives inside me.

In this frigid grey I see you so clearly – turning your head to smile back at me – your eyes so warm with tenderness. That knowing laugh of yours. The way you hinted at deeper and more wonderful things. The permission you gave. Not to do what others do. Not to want the folly of gold and glory, or the shallowness of wisdom. We never asked to be feted, nor approved of. We only ever wanted the unblinking and egalitarian oblivion of the light. To have all the shit washed off. The walls destroyed. To hear the music wherever we went.

Amidst the bare knuckled trees I linger and in the thickening dusk I call across the impossibility to listen out for the echoes of your astonishing beauty. I breathe in the viscous wet scent of fallen leaves and rain drunk dirt. I hear the song of celestial time – its overwhelming and magnificent simplicity – and I am ready to whisper my assent to the immensity. If only to be nearer. To you. To us.

So now I shall close my eyes and in a blink of blackness the wheel will have turned – and in a heartbeat the light will have come back to me. And I will not be here.

Love letter # 500

I was dizzy in your wake – shaken to the bone by your approach – drunk in the advent of you. Was beauty ever so fragile and intoxicating as it was in your eyes? Was desire ever so wild as it was at the touch your hand?

You turned your gaze towards me and in the fire of your seeing I was reduced – boiled down to the essential. You whispered those words and all the noise stopped. The door you held open was the end of both my certainty and my unknowing.

In the aftermath of your kiss – the vast and sweeping hush of oceans. In the circle of your limbs – the silence of arrival. In the fever of our finding – the melting down of walls.

For there was a rain of longing and upon us it fell heavy, washing away our conceit, cleansing the grit and the muck of our defence. Now, shiny striplings, we run as though barefoot. You like flying – me as the breathless air beside you.