Tag Archives: Euphoria

Love letter # 503

There is much I have forgotten, details yielded to time and other fogs. But the body holds traces, relives the sensation. The wonder of your arrival, like the beating of butterfly wings. The rush of falling, as though desire, coded in flutters, remains, with the distortions of ordinary grind edited out and the purity of hunger tight in my gut. It is the sweetness of a gravity both abstracted and real. Fantasy strung out in the fibre of nerves. In these moments, mess and noise dissolve and the unobstructed current flows brilliant. I catch my breath, and in that liminal space, I love you like the dawn of everything.

Love letter # 558

Perhaps if we had not felt the immensity, we too would have sought the surety of anchors. Reduced ourselves to the bareness of names. Huddled beneath the aegis of myth. Knelt in the cathedral of tribes. Yet it was the land that we loved, not the king who laid claim. The fragile rhythm of hearts, not badges on bullish chests.

They wanted words – catechisms – when we could only make sound. They built rooms, yet ours was a house without walls. They looked to us to see themselves confirmed, yet we saw the form of the formless. In place of a hollow empire, we had the empty sublime. The light that is not a light. The eye that is the absence of seeing.

They pleaded with us to know, but we knew already that there was nothing to know. When they urged us to remain, we had long since flown. Betrayal, they cried – fearing judgement – yet we had glimpsed the mercy of silence. And in that compassion, which is an ocean, all the moorings shall be washed away, and none shall have need of islands.

Now we shall swim until we drown – for even as we drown, we shall not be broken apart. Because there is no apart. Not when you have sensed the vastness…and seen the maps dissolve.

Love letter # 492

How did I know I would find you? I did not. I merely walked. I did not call out in expectation of your response; I simply raised my voice. I did not sing for the beauty of your dance, but for the liberty of music. This house was not made as a temple, neither as a cell; only as a home. I have not loved thee for thy touch, for my love is as the rainfall, that a desert may know flowers. Nor shall thy name be carved, for a name is too small, a stone too stone. For you shall not be sought, only given. There is no toil worthy of you, for you are not a prize. Therefore, I shall not seek to know you, for I know already what I can, that you shall not be known. And here is where my love shall dwell.

Love letter # 438

I came into being with your song in my soul. I walked so as to trace your footsteps. I spoke so as to know your voice. I am naked, such that I might feel your skin. I breath to have you inside me. I weep, in order that I might drink from your well. And I shall soon sleep…that I may be returned to you.

Love letter # 790

You could easily overlook it. So nearly something you’d miss. The two of them. Next to each other on the tram. Looking at photos on a phone. Him so full of swagger. So afraid of how she makes him feel. Her laughter like promise. The way she looks at him. The light that pierces everything.

They have forever. Spring is flowering for them. Now they are as gods – golden before the fall. Weightless on the outskirts of gravity.

It wasn’t so long ago, was it? Not that far away? Arcadia. We two in our momentary pomp. In deliriously suspended disbelief. The satin swoon of youth. The euphoria of finding…and being found.

They got off in the city. Vanished into the anonymous whirl. Their joy trailing invisible tendrils of a lovely miasma. Floating, as once did we. Breathe in now, my love. Breathe it in. Breathe it in. Breathe it in.

Love letter # 439

This evening, conjured by the angled sun, called up by the softening folds of seasonal air, you were with me once more. Present in my charged senses. Or rather, I was back there – then – decades evaporated – on the trundling red train, moving up the hill to your teenage welcome.

Perhaps I should have known. The freshly scented spring. The first few weeks after equinox. Sky not yet bleached by summer. And the light. Crisp still, yet turning by shades to honey. The splendid colour of you. Of remembering.

For you arrived like the flowers, like bird chorus and bee thrum, and love was grown from bare limbs. Sweetness woken from its frosted sleep. It was the Eden of everything. All the fruit anew. No thought for shame, nor serpents.

And then…spring, summer, autumn…we did not make into winter; and you found warmth with another. I very nearly froze. Yet eventually thawed. Went back to the garden. Found other blooms. Grew older. Kept only pictures of you. Faded, crinkled, sitting in a shoebox. The butterfly pinned. Dry.

Except now. Emerged. Alive in the scent of the gold toned evening. The full swoon in flow. As though I could smell your hair. See the little freckles on your cheekbone. Feel the cool euphoria of your skin. We walked. Talked as always. Laughed. And your beaming eye shot a fire right through me, so that now my blissed out tears are opal. Tonight, for an hour, perhaps more, I will love you again as though loving had just been invented.

What flowers you have tended with your touch. What seasons you have brought to bear. What thanks I give for these patient seeds, nestled in muscle and time, that they might bring such bounty to my door.

They are all you

Ever since I met you, I have always known. It is not that they are shadows, nor you their ghostly forebear. Neither do they replace you, or simply stand in your place. They shall not follow in your wake, nor wear thy lovely crown. The shiver of your love shall not be stilled in their embrace…for they are all you.

Now that I have tasted skin and mouth, woken in their warmth, I know it even more. When I am dancing at their side, dazzled with the shine, very nearly blind, this is what I find. They are all you, my love. They are all you.

In slanted light – in the golden, diagonal hand – I watch the lifted motes in beams, the graceful math of their floating; and with my quiet wonder I see it clear. They are all you.

And when, to the chorus of birds, in my song-filled garden, I bend to pick the fallen feather, I sense for a moment the thrill of their flying. I watch as they ascend, as if to a beat in a hidden hymn, and I know it, as they know the wing. For they are all you, my love. They are all you.

Hear now, the distant bell. Beauty come in waves. The cells of my body in tune. Your invisible signature, like time. Yes, even the sound, and the silence that makes it known…they are all you.

For I have breathed it in; this air of your ever present absence. In my lungs, in my blood, in my heart and my brain. In marrow and sinew, viscera and derma. All these scurrying parts, they bring me to your door, as ever they have. I feel them as your tender touch, like whispers you exhale. Again, my skin will go to bumps and you will pass right through me, and I will know it over and over.

They are all you, my love. They are all you.