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.
Love letter # 528
What if I love you too much? What if I lose it?
This is what worries me. It’s not like I haven’t nearly gone mad before. Maybe I want it too keenly for my own good. So much that it threatens to leave everything else in ruins. The glorious wave that, in its inexorable motion, lays waste to the land. The high that crashes into the indignity of desire.
Yet perhaps you like the prospect of danger. Is that why you’re asking? Why your eyes are daring to peel off skin? Such a provocation.
We both have a lot at stake. Self-esteem, reputation, a measure of sanity. This won’t stop at a night of novelty. Or simple convenience. If we cross into the wilds, we must expect the end of comfort.
Are you sure you want this?
Love letter # 446
I try not to look, even though I can; though you make it easy.
Are you unconscious of your beauty or are you aware that the sight of you is unravelling? Is this display of skin and form and flickering gesture an act, a game, or is it simply you? Am I meant to respond, to be nearly out of breath, or is it a trap? Will I be the next sexist – the umpteenth objectifier – or merely an arsonist’s blazing victory? The cinders of a smiling routine. Notch in your belt of suckers.
I ask all this because of the times; because of all the other stuff that gets in the way. And because I’m scared. Terrified this will blow off my hands, reduce me once more to a wreck. Once it was easy to desire – now it is like teetering on an edge. Love and hunger and deep fascination used to come naturally, as from a spring to a river to a welcoming sea. Today they are queered by memory and caution, tangled up in politeness and politics. Now I am paralysed, perhaps crucified – for I have marvelled at your beauty and swooned to the swish of your passing. I have even dreamt. Daringly so.
Yet here now, with these words, my biggest risk. You will read this and, shortly thereafter, I will have my answer. Tomorrow I will see it in your eyes, or worse, in quiet withdrawal. Or you will astound me, and I won’t feel so clamorous and exposed for writing.
Love letter # 535
This is how I feel in the realm of your beauty: liquid, vulnerable, naked, hungry, alone. For you are beautiful and I am not. Next to you, I am a million miles from your touch. In your wake, I walk the desert of your affection, and with each word the silence thickens. Yet none of this is your fault – merely the accidental making of your gaze as it passes right through me, an arrow arcing elsewhere.
This is what it is to be in exile. To see and hear, to inhale the atoms of your scent, and yet know nothing; except that desire is spawned in pretty flickers and love in chemical rivers. Both given and withheld without recourse to appeal or evidence. With brute appraisal. And of course, I am as guilty as you. For to long for the lovely mirage is to be drenched in thirst.
You see, we do have something in common, after all.
Love letter # 599
It was just one kiss. Polite, not passionate. Yet your lips lingered a little longer – or did they? Now I can’t tell; though I do hope. My pulse is quickened, my judgement blurred. I’d play it cool if I had any left. Instead, what I have is the memory of taste. The echo of sensation. As though a storm had passed, the earth still slick with heavy scented potential. The air abuzz with the promise of flowers. On this I shall sleep, perhaps to wake in a world I have dreamt.