Tag Archives: Desire

Love letter # 325

If you touch me I’m sure I will promptly dissolve. If you take me in your arms I may just break. That’s how it feels – almost asphyxiating in your presence, wondering where to look, what to do, how not to melt into a formless mess. You see this kind of thing in films, hear it in songs, but you never expect it to actually happen. At least not on this cynical planet. Not at my age. But then, who would have guessed that I’d meet someone like you.

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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 # 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 # 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 # 480

You are beautiful in a way that defies all but the most animal logic. Much as I might try to arm myself against your pulchritude with reason or politically correct sensibility, your light shines right through the million cracks in my ridiculous defence. Even my hard earned trepidations about ‘falling for someone again’ are skirted by the fires of your splendour.

How easily we are knocked off our comfortable perches by the deeper currents of evolution and chemistry. It is humbling. Magnificent in its devastating simplicity. A shape, a scent, a sparkle in the eye. The promise of skin. The glow that follows.

So, in place of poetry, gravity. In lieu of good intention, desire.

This may indeed be a shallow missive, little more than a politely sexual confession, but in your presence and in my most urgent imaginings I am reduced – or is elevated? – to the kind of hunger that will permit neither denial nor obfuscation.