Love letter # 346
It is not simply that I love you but that, in you, I am the act of love. Your eyes turn me into light, your voice into song. When you move I am the dance – and when you leave I am the distance between stars. But your touch … now I am the very stuff of being; the act of becoming. In your presence, the unmanifest infinity collapses to a moment. A breath. A beat. A kiss.
Love letter # 496
She was sitting in a pool of sunlight. It sparkled in her hair. Like diamonds dancing. I watched her quietly. Entranced. After about thirty seconds she turned, our eyes met and her smile unfolded like splendour. For a beat we were in sync. And in that moment I was with you once more. Remembering how you dazzled me – and why I still love you.
Love letter # 1418
Now the distance uncrossable. Here the worthless keepsakes, dusted with the film of years. Now the vastness of time. This the deep quiet that separates us. These the gestures, the thousand follies. This the going through the motions. I the act. Everything ritual. Take a step, then another. Smile. Be nice. Pretend. Forgive them their trespasses. Try not to acknowledge the undeniable fact.
Now that I have been to edge of you, seen the shadows thrown by your shining, beheld the awesome emptiness your eye describes, heard the silence that is the beauty of your song – I walk amongst this clutter of noise and ceremony as a stranger. Here, but not here. Out in the immensity with you. In the realm of the infinite nothing. In the ecstasy of your completeness. How I could disappear with you, my love. How I could disappear.
Love letter # 385
There is a scene that has remained with me. It is autumn, the air is turning damp. The light a misty gold. We are standing outside your house. You smile at me. Kiss me politely. It is a promise. I float into the gathering night. I adore you.
But it goes no further …
Years later, on a cold foggy morning I stare into the veil of winter and it is as if you are still there, waiting on the kerb for me to return. And as this fog lifts I begin to understand with hard finality that that was the moment – you there, within reach, your lush mouth, the smell of you, and the tumble of your hair. Everything that was going to be – but never was.
I know that I could rise up with this mist, dissolve back into the invisible, let go this tenuous hold. No, not despair. Not regret. Rather, calmness. Completion. The angel has looked upon me – and I have stood beside her. I smile at the feel of the sun as it burns off the dewy shroud and the wispy remainders of you melt away to the banality of another ordinary day. Although perhaps you will later fall as rain.
Then … words. These. Your beauty, my longing. Time. The creak of aged bones. The space between memory and acceptance. Those few seconds when we stood so close. The silent certainty after your kiss.
And of course, what came after.
Love letter # 470
It doesn’t take much. Just your name. Spoken, thought of or written down. Four letters to let loose the storm. To break the night open. Smash the atoms. Destroy the ramparts of denial. For you are the end of my arrogance and the beginning of my nakedness. You are the eviscerating force that reduces bullish language to supplicant sound. If, before you, I was noise and colour and pomp, with your kiss I was quietened. In your hands, made humble. With your love, unleashed.
You said, how was it we found each other? I replied, because we wanna ride it to the end.
We know this now. It’s been confirmed a thousand times. It’s why there is an ever growing space between them and us. Why they snitch. Talk behind their hands. Smile in that condescending way. Take pity on us; like we ever needed their sanctimonious ‘understanding’.
They stick to the middle, living in beige safety. In fear of the other. Fear of themselves. That’s why they hold fast to the doomed mechanisms of control. They think the suicide bombers are the terrorists – but look at them; polluting the land and sea and sky in the name of mortgage belt horror and 24/7 plastic coated convenience. In the name of their so called lifestyle. Their precious standard of living. Or God forbid, family values. Is there anything more pusillanimous and complacent?
It’s why we need to let them go. Because we wanna ride it to the end. Because we know we’ll burn. Because we’re cool with the idea that it all comes to nothing. We do not require the opium of storybook narratives – their Gods and after lives, their bucket lists and status cults, the vanity of their one sentence enlightenment. Let’s leave them to their belief and elope with our beautiful doubt.
We are but a breath away from nothing, my love. So let’s breathe. Allow the wave to take us. Surf the uncertainty. Because we’re gonna ride it to the end. Because in the end, the end is all there is. The futile struggle to hang on is for slaves. They can keep their bondage – their manacles made of dread and denial – and leave us to fall from the sky. To know, for the merest of blinks, the euphoria of flight.
Does that answer your question?