Love letter # 435
You passed me on the stairs and, over shoulders, with half turns, our eyes locked. I spied you in the corner of a room, your thoughts in clouds, looking as though you knew. I watched you as you walked – and as you drew near. We very nearly brushed against each other. Like me, you were holding your breath. Now you sit beside me. Now the silence is ours.
There is a world out there, blurring by beyond the plane of a window, this clouded canvas upon which we now draw our fingertip shapes in condensation. Your graceful distance, my humble presence. Your gorgeous melancholy, my pilgrim adoration. Your shimmering solitude, my lonesome prayer.
We hover in a kind of absence, dance to a song without form. Ours is the realm without border, the house without walls. We live nowhere. Claim nothing. Do not yield to the stricture of names. You and I are not even you and I; for now we are in the melted space, not even space. We are the paradox of two and one and three – the trinity that adds up to nothing. The emptiness that contains all things. The dark eye, beholder of flooding light.
I wonder now – indeed I have already forgotten – how it was I lived without you.
Love letter # 512
Everything changes, this we know, and our attempts to keep things as they are fly in the face of logic and evidence. Yet, for all that, my unfaltering love for you. Like an eternal, indivisible force – or rather, a clear and unmoving viewpoint from which to gaze out upon the world. A sublime centrality.
For I still measure the nights by your kiss, and wonder at the dawn by the brightness of your smile. I still walk the miles by the closeness of your hand and dance the dance to the meter of your sway. And to this day I cast all beauty in your form. Hear all songs in your voice. Comprehend joy by the music of your laughter. Indeed, through the prism of my loving you, I sift out the light and the dark, and everything in between, and, by this means, understand that they are one.
Love letter # 353
The way she looks up at him as they walk along. How he basks in her attention. Their secret tongue. The manner of their touching. The lustre of a private vision in their eyes. All the beautiful details of their moving together. This is what I want to share with you.
Love letter # 999
Why don’t you walk into the night, my love – obscure yourself in shadows – and why not a light a fire when you get there – so that later I might find you – even in the darkness?
Love letter # 387
It’s the fall of your hair. The lustrous cascade of it. The gorgeous wave it has. Those golden highlights. More than just beautiful; borderline majestic. For when you free it from its workaday constraint and it flows like a sparkling river of light, I too am simply swept along. As though I were a strand, dancing to the cool cadence of your stride, or a melody line in the beguiling and ever mysterious hymn you sing to the higher ideal. That such a simple thing should somehow offer hints of the unfathomable often leaves me speechless – with nothing left to understand; only that I love you.
Love letter # 404
When we obliterate the triviality of detail, when we pass through the frontier of control, all we have is the golden light. The pure, unbounded enfolding. The embrace that is not withheld for the want of names or the quibble of character. It is the sea we never leave; in which we are all drowning. Fragile swimmers.
In this extraordinary vastness we are swooning. Inside this immensity we shall neither be lost nor found, woman nor man. Just motes in the eye of the shining. Which shall not blink for judgement – only see. And we … we shall simply be.
Love letter # 511
The world may well decree, logic might dictate, reason will surely give pause – but what do we care about that right now? This could be little more than a moment, a flickering light in a sea of grey. We know this – but today, tonight, it is our light. Not because we own it or we’re entitled to it; simply because we made it. Because we decided. And will decide again and again until one or both of us chooses something else. We can call it love if we want, or simply desire. Or mutual hunger. Or recognition. These are words – and our light is neither bound by them nor by history or expectation. It shines when we shine it. For now at least, we are blessed by this glorious deciding; and even if only in the faulty museum of memory, we can always have this. If we want.