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Tonight, my love, I am touched by the hand withdrawn.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.
Love letter # 388
A lively mind, a playful spirit, a sense of irreverence – these are the things that draw me to you. Your way with words, your devilish eye, the way you tease; but also your fire and the way you just don’t give a damn when others cast their petty judgement on you. I love the way you flaunt it. Your hauteur. No false modesty for you. Then, perhaps above all, your compassion, which shines out amongst the syrupy suburban sentimentality that so often parades as kindness. And even your flaws, which render you so human, and the vulnerability you allow me see. No wonder I love you as I do. No wonder I feel so blessed to walk beside you.
Love letter # 406
Yes, I get to receive your love, and for this I am honoured and deeply thankful – but more than this, you let me love you and that, my friend, that is where the profoundest, most liberating joy is to be found. For when I am in the act of loving you it is as though I am love. I can only hope that you too get to experience this extraordinary wonder.
Love letter # 512
Everything changes, this we know, and our attempts to keep things as they are fly in the face of logic and evidence. Yet, for all that, my unfaltering love for you. Like an eternal, indivisible force – or rather, a clear and unmoving viewpoint from which to gaze out upon the world. A sublime centrality.
For I still measure the nights by your kiss, and wonder at the dawn by the brightness of your smile. I still walk the miles by the closeness of your hand and dance the dance to the meter of your sway. And to this day I cast all beauty in your form. Hear all songs in your voice. Comprehend joy by the music of your laughter. Indeed, through the prism of my loving you, I sift out the light and the dark, and everything in between, and, by this means, understand that they are one.
Love letter # 420
Hey, this might be little more than a ‘friends with benefits’ thing but we can call it love if we want. After all, it is just a word, a symbol of something shared between people, an indicator of something more special than the merely average or convenient. Sure, we can shy away from it if you like, if its association with adolescent fantasy and/or the various ‘isms’ and ‘ologies’ bothers you, but I for one am ready to use the so-called L bomb. Because really, when I strip out the external noise, I do love you; if that’s an okay thing to confess these days.