Love letter # 323
Your walk. The hypnotic sway of it. The quiet way you dance, eyes closed, seemingly oblivious to anything but the ecstasy of music. The subtlety of your smile. How you seem to know something the rest of us don’t.
And then there’s the distance. That spectral horizon your eyes always drift out towards. As though you do not really belong here with us. Grubby, stupid humans.
Sometimes, I’ll be honest, I am in silent awe. Your beauty has a quality that obliterates expectation. Destroys complacency. Melts away the trivia of detail. Maybe it is a kind of test. If so, I submit to the rules of the examination. Not merely as a stumbling and hopeful stooge of desire but to hold up the mirror I know you’ve been searching for. To see you. And give you a reason to look.
Love letter # 637
You are so beautiful I can barely look at you. I am literally physically affected. Deep stirring occurs – lust yes, but also more than that, a longing to care and protect. God, even to adore. As though via some extraordinary mechanism of gravity you could usher a river from me. And this is both wonderful and terrifying. For you could break me with a flicker of an eyelid. This is why I hold my breath. Look down at the ground. Because beauty is a star that blinds – burns – and I do not know if I am ready once again to be the man of cinders.
Love letter # 428
Truth be told, you would be better advised not to be so friendly, not to sit so close, not to smile like that. You are playing with fire and whilst you will have your fingertips singed my entire world will burn to the ground. Your beauty, combined with your attentions, your habit of openness and closeness, will make an inferno of my calm. Wreckage of my sensible perspective.
I am on the verge of loving you utterly – wanting you absurdly – and I would much rather not. I have nothing to gain from pointlessly adoring your unattainable body or from ridiculously pursuing your greater affection.
Please, if this is anything more than a game to you, allow me my space. Surely you do not require the validation of my aging hunger – the ego boost of yet another fool tumbling at your feet.
So before I dare to seriously dream of a kiss that we both know will never land – a fantasy that will quickly morph into a nightmare – do not lean so close next time. Do not lay your hand on me. Avert those shining eyes.
Though it may be hard to accept that I will never know the warm velvet of your skin, it would be far harder to believe that one day I might. Show me that your love is impossible. Make it plain that even in a thousand years your lips will not taste mine. Every fibre in my animal body wants to strain for you but my heart knows better. And so do you.
Let’s hit pause now – because after a certain point there is no rewind.
Love letter # 500
I was dizzy in your wake – shaken to the bone by your approach – drunk in the advent of you. Was beauty ever so fragile and intoxicating as it was in your eyes? Was desire ever so wild as it was at the touch your hand?
You turned your gaze towards me and in the fire of your seeing I was reduced – boiled down to the essential. You whispered those words and all the noise stopped. The door you held open was the end of both my certainty and my unknowing.
In the aftermath of your kiss – the vast and sweeping hush of oceans. In the circle of your limbs – the silence of arrival. In the fever of our finding – the melting down of walls.
For there was a rain of longing and upon us it fell heavy, washing away our conceit, cleansing the grit and the muck of our defence. Now, shiny striplings, we run as though barefoot. You like flying – me as the breathless air beside you.
Love letter # 310
The way you looked at me yesterday – eyes like a question – your outbreath slowed, lips slightly parted – I wonder do you share this hunger? Is this our folie à deux?
I know that there are all kinds of theories for this, from gushing adolescent fancy to the Wal-Mart spirituality of bourgeois denial and the dry nihilist mechanisms of evolution … but right now they are all just after thoughts. For now is desire. No, not just wanting, not merely sexual; a longing so dense and physical that it has swept away the niceties of explanation. Even the flowers of song are trampled.
This is gravity and I am falling. Plummeting. It is a pull in my gut. A blaze in my bloodlines. A hook inside me. Resist and I shall be torn. Surrender and I shall be drawn.
I have no idea where this where end. With you, I hope. With you.
Love letter # 433
I was enveloped by you. Saturated as if by monsoon rain. Just to be near you. To watch the rise and fall of your breathing. To see the exquisite detail of your lashes. To feel the warmth of your form and the gravity of your presence. I did not need words for it then – or now really. I write as though to confirm, to make plain. Yes, you have set the fire in me. You have fanned the flame. And now it is pouring from me; this mighty tide of light. This euphoria of wanting nothing else. Just this. Today, tomorrow and every other day I could name.