Tag Archives: Euphoria

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.

Love letter # 422

Yes, I hear them. I know what they’re saying. I can even understand why they say it. But they don’t know. They have mistaken appearance for substance. Their judgement is coded in the beliefs they have about themselves. Their cynic’s wisdom is a cleverly clothed self-loathing. So do not worry, I hear them but do not believe. For you have shown me the beautiful paradox; and together we have discovered that the glory of the song lies between the notes. Our house is not made of walls…but of the space they map. Let them have their landmarks, their names and tags, their tiny, ring-fenced world. We can glimpse the more that isn’t more. The thing that isn’t a thing. The present that is always absent. We can leave it all behind, right now, and have everything in return.

Love letter # 413

It’s like one of those Phil Spector, Wall of Sound, girl group songs. Rapturous, romantic, almost innocent. Such an intense swoon. An immense wave of light headed ecstasy. Heart like those crashing drums, blood buzzed with overwhelming electricity. I could dance all night. Maybe forever. As long as you are near.

So yeah – that’s what it feels like with you. Like leaves will never fall and fanciful dreams turn out true. As if, in the blink between the blissed out beats, nothing is beyond us – and we are young again and everything is laid out plain as day, all the while the sweet songs play. For we are like the needle poised, ready to spin and soar and be alive.

Love letter # 664

The look in your eyes tells me everything I need to know. Your lips communicate, with soft pressure, the core truth. There is no call for a label. For a flag or an ism. For a placard or an ‘identity’. We are in not in need of causes and walls and us‘n’them markers. There is no acronym for us. We simply see one another and are seen in return. The doors are open, the windows unblocked, the borders dissolved. We have dispensed with the myths of perfection and perfidy, smashed the shiny altar of baubles. We are not the things we carry, nor the names they call us. The only people here now are you and I. Flowers in the mirror of being. So let’s hold hands, let’s go where we may; and leave the rest of them to bicker over the wording.