Love letter # 408
You. Who else? What other reason could there be?
Please don’t pretend you aren’t aware. Don’t add that disingenuous veil of denial to the mix. It’s bad enough as it is – seeing you, having you near me. Those eyes, that smile. You see, I know you don’t mean it. You do it because you can.
I don’t wish to demonise you here, or cast you as the evil, manipulative villain of the piece. I understand how good it is to flirt, to toy with the idea of intimacy, and I know how good it feels to have someone want you. All I ask, now that you know that I know, is that you kindly desist. If you don’t I will almost inevitably fall and our playful, platonic game will turn into an awkward mess of aching, embarrassment and avoidance.
For I am teetering on the brink of loving you – but for me at least, loving is not a trifle. It is, as they say, skin in the game. Yet I have no wish to be flayed. Nor to break.
This may be a difficult thing for you to accept. Perhaps it will seem stupid. Cowardly. Insipid. The thing is, my friend, I will bear these epithets more easily than the alternative. Think of it this way: if I have taken the considerable risk of writing to you like this, imagine how dangerous I believe it is to stay silent and just allow things to unfold. I would rather you dismiss me now, with tiny bruises, than later, with freshly broken bones.
Love letter # 366
I never really stopped loving you. Didn’t get the chance to. Which leaves the memory of you relatively untarnished; still lustrous, still the nigh miraculous possibility. The drudgery of years and the cooling of fires never applied to you. You left before ordinary set in. Maybe that was prescient of you.
In the silence that remained you quietly flowered, such that, though I have neither heard from nor seen you for many a season, you are today the ever-fruiting branch. All blossom and sugars. Every day resplendent in sunshine. The perfection that, as we both know could never be sustained by real human beings.
Yet perhaps I would trade this fantasy for an hour at your side. For a word. For questions answered or rendered irrelevant. Because it may well be that the flesh and the blood, the skin and the scent, your breath and your form are all the more wonderful than these gossamer dreams. Are we ready for our manifold flaws? For who and what we are? For the death of desire – or its reboot?
Maybe I’ll never know. Or you won’t care and it won’t matter. This could well be a waste of keystrokes.
Unless of course…
Love letter # 440
I could say it in a million ways but it always comes back to this: I love you.
What does that mean? To be honest, I can’t pin it down – but I can sure feel it. This love, whatever it is, is as obvious as breath, as vital as blood. It is in me. Waiting. Yearning for release.
Perhaps it is a form of madness. Or music. Again, I could carve it to pieces, but it would still be just this: the yearning I feel in your presence, the longing that sighs in my bones when you are elsewhere.
And now, at the thought of you, the flower unfolds and all the world is heady scent. And I inhale – and somehow, you are inside me, and I love it.
Love letter # 859
It is the promise of your kiss; the dream of waking up next to you. So primal, so powerful. Such humbling animal gravity. There really isn’t much more I can say.
Love letter # 559
This evening, amidst the detectable softening of winter and the sweet aromatic emergence of spring, I felt you on my skin. Or was it your absence that quickened my senses? The vacated space you formerly inhabited, the quiet that once resonated with your proximity. Was the scented air in my nostrils the remnant mist of your tenderness? Did I swoon in such vapours?
One day, I swear, the weight of all this nebulous beauty will surely crush the last breath out of me – so that I can go missing with you. Be similarly hushed. Allow the light to shine right through. For now your love is the long sigh of distance, strung like the horizon at the edges of my awareness. As though, from elsewhere, your absence maps the borders of my presence.
Tonight, my love, I am touched by the hand withdrawn. Kissed by the mouth obscured. Wrapped in the arms of atmosphere. And in the hollow of your departure, a silence – the overwhelming beauty of which I can barely behold without sub-bass tremors shivering through the oceans of my blood, making holy floods out of memory and desire. Melting even melancholy into euphoria. Because you’re not here. Because the softly brushing evening, with its deep, invisible promise, is the flower of your leaving.
Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Except it’s magnificent.
Love letter # 497
So there’s this girl. Lithe, slender. Maybe a little melancholy. She likes to wear charcoal black jeans. She lets her long hair flow whenever she can. And then there are her eyes – illuminated with fires I recognise. I wonder sometimes: is she is looking into me? Showing me a sign. Holding out the possibility.
I see her most days. You know the one. The mint cool blonde. The girl who calls me by name. Shines her rogue of a smile at me – half knowing, half wondering – whenever she catches me looking. Seems to let me revel in her form; her long and languorous lines, the curved terrain of her feline approach, the intense quiet that underscores her movement, the mystery of a gaze that seems to come from an immense distance.
Oh yes, you know her. I would simply like to. No…make that love to.
Love letter # 435
You passed me on the stairs and, over shoulders, with half turns, our eyes locked. I spied you in the corner of a room, your thoughts in clouds, looking as though you knew. I watched you as you walked – and as you drew near. We very nearly brushed against each other. Like me, you were holding your breath. Now you sit beside me. Now the silence is ours.
There is a world out there, blurring by beyond the plane of a window, this clouded canvas upon which we now draw our fingertip shapes in condensation. Your graceful distance, my humble presence. Your gorgeous melancholy, my pilgrim adoration. Your shimmering solitude, my lonesome prayer.
We hover in a kind of absence, dance to a song without form. Ours is the realm without border, the house without walls. We live nowhere. Claim nothing. Do not yield to the stricture of names. You and I are not even you and I; for now we are in the melted space, not even space. We are the paradox of two and one and three – the trinity that adds up to nothing. The emptiness that contains all things. The dark eye, beholder of flooding light.
I wonder now – indeed I have already forgotten – how it was I lived without you.