Tag Archives: Desire

Love letter # 792

You have populated my dreams, day and night. Last night, you placed your hand upon my knee, and I felt your warmth. It woke me. I turned over to the mirage of your presence, and in the drowsy temple of my senses I could hear your breath, circling in the darkened hush.

Walking in the blue afternoon, I watch the wave of your hair, note the sun in your eyes. You fall upon me like brightness, moving through my body like the ruffle of breeze. Still you are a vision. A dreamt of kiss. An embrace imagined. The prayer of tenderness returned.

If I have loved you in the room of disembodied desire, so too I have yearned in the realm of flesh and blood. Perhaps it is only the invented you who walks at my side, yet I have travelled long in the wake of your attention. You have said my name aloud and I have suffered the vertigo of your scent.

Therefore, I conjure you beneath sun and moon, such that I may require no such vision. So that one day soon I may close my eyes and know that you are near; and I might sleep through the night in the valley of your form.

Love letter # 494

Of course I think about touching. You must know this already. I try to hide it, but desire has a way of showing through. I see your eyes searching me, prising apart my fragile reserve. Questioning my eroding resolve.

Yet, I am duly confined to my role as watcher. Admirer. My love shall barely breath its name. This is why I avert my eyes. Why I leave early. Refuse invitation. For I know that speaking is the door to exile.

I note your scars; and I know that to reach out is to risk their bleeding. Then, I will be the monster. The one who reduces everything to sex, to blunt feeding. And you will flee. And I, newly reviled, shall fall even further from your grace.

Sometimes the truest act of love is not to act. If this is the torch I must carry, I shall walk into the nocturnal quiet. There, the bright beam shall be the absence of my gaze. The vanished devotional. Now, in the emptied auditorium of hunger, transient spectres will fade to hushed resolution, and only the silence will have eyes for you.

Love letter # 437

It is hard to admit, let alone say, but yes, I do ponder the possibility of us. What’s more, we have kissed behind my eyes. In my thoughts I have heard you say clearly what I have been reading between the lines. In fantasy we have danced. And today, waking from the dream of you, the silence draws me on, as though the pressure of hinting had forced this longing into sound. Now it has formed like rainfall. Now it is falling toward you. Soon it will be weather. Do you venture out…or do you stay inside?

Love letter # 436

Yes, that kind of evening. Heavy silk, the nearness of rain. Bare shoulders, a mist of sweat on your brow.

In the golden light, the sculpture of your frame. At the dusk, your feather touch. In the dark, the song of sighs.

Then, come morning, what remains? What of wonder, what of flames? Shall we make with ashes the start of days?

Love letter # 426

Here’s the thing: you’re beautiful. Maybe you know this already. Perhaps it is of no consequence; and I am merely one in a line. The cut/copy admirer with hungry eyes. Take a number.

Then again, it might not be like that at all. My eyes may see you differently. Because your beauty is not a figure or a swing of limbs. Nor the fall of velvet hair or the promise of supple mouth. Nor even the electricity of hands. I cannot say what it is, for I do not know. I only know that I notice; and noticing, am transfixed.

I realise this missive will seem like more of the same. I apologise if this is so. For I do not appear before you as a beggar. I am not starving. I will not die if you decline. It is not your favour I seek. Neither is it the skin and thrill of your assent. Yet still I am drawn, as though the beauty I sense in you were calling out to me. Testing me. Examining my motives. Wondering if I might just be…

Love letter # 421

You know he ignores you, don’t you? I see the way you try to get his attention, or hold it, and he diverts to his phone or gives the minimum response. You smile, your eyes full of tenderness, your lovely form inclined towards him; but he knows he doesn’t have to try. Or thinks he doesn’t. Or simply doesn’t wish to.

Yet, if I am tempted to judge him – which, I confess, I am – I ask myself if he knows something about you that I am blind to. That gorgeous figure of yours, those coquette moves…what do they hide? What is the price of all that visible affection? (Affectation?)

I wonder now what history you share in private. The invisible realities of closeness. Perhaps I will never know; but, watching on, fascinated by you, I am most certainly prepared to find out. To return the gentle, playful intimacy you appear to offer. To take his place.