Tag Archives: Love letters for her

Love letter # 425

All I know is that when you sent me that txt last night my heart rate doubled in an instant. My blood surged. A king tide of warmth washed through me.

I have tried to keep these feelings at bay – aware of how easily they could unseat me, how entirely vulnerable they could render me – but at your every whisper they flare. Not like pain but joy. Promise. The sweet delirium of falling.

Yet I am terrified. It is, of course, the age old fear of breaking. Once more.

So I write you this in order that you understand that I am not unaffected. That this matters. That you are very definitely something. That it’s you I dream of.

For though it is mixed with the accumulated history of my dread, it is without doubt the brightest, most wonderful light to have shone upon me in years.

I know that the next few weeks and months will ultimately tell the tale of this – that desire, proclivity and circumstance will weigh in with their powerful influence – but tonight I shiver. Uncertain. Knowing that with the merest push I will stumble and that, upon standing, I shall find myself in love with you.

Love letter # 523

We’re both adults – we know how these things tend to go. So yes, it’s true, I am holding back.

Of course I wanted to hold you. Kiss you. Love you in every conceivable way. I saw the universe unfolding in the darkness of your eyes. I saw us dancing in five years time. Heard the music in my head. Felt the thunder in my blood. The fear that runs crazy in a heart held together by the knotted wires of will alone.

Forgive me if I am speaking out of turn here – but I think it’s same for you. We are both pilgrims walking the earth in the thrall of redemptive beauty. Broken angels patching up their wings. Bearers of light throwing shadows all around.

I guess I just wanted you to know that it’s okay. We don’t have to do this. I shall not judge you for the trepidations that belong to me. Your hesitation is mine. Our uncertainty unites us.

What If I loved you? What if I burned? What if you smiled in return?

Love letter # 462

I had a dream – the one of you that didn’t quite turn out. It was made from the sadness in your eyes and from the detailed loveliness of your bony fingers. Carved from the litheness of your form. Painted in the dusty alabaster of your skin. Made from the stories I wished were true.

Yet we are not the dreams of others, just as the world is not a map of our desire. You were not the fantasy I created and I was not the narrative you penned. But it was these two figures who fell in love. We were ones who followed. Hoping. Wanting so much to believe.

Now, as we sit with the blank stare of reality, we have something else. Easy to call it bitterness. Smug to call it wisdom. More beautiful, I feel, to say that this is what we made from the fire. Not just the ruins – but the light.

Love letter # 243

You move like a river through this desert of mine. You fall like the rain upon my parched and broken ground. You rise like the moon on the blackest night. And everything glows. And deeply, and with low planetary sighs, I turn towards you. My love is like a force of nature; a rock in space around a star. This impulse is beneath and beyond anything I could ever explain. As though I were flung from the lofty heights into the warm encompassing valley of your hands. There to shudder and melt away.

Love letter # 365

From all the prophets of the world I never learned a thing. Neither have the sages brought me a scrap of joy. All their words and supposedly stupendous insights have done nought but leave me dry. Their wisdom is the grandest folly. The self-perpetuating denial of the apparently spiritual. The fear of death dressed up as eternity. Only in you have I known the wonder of the light. Only in the tender, uncomplicated honesty of your smile. And only by surrender am I truly set free.

For you are not the promise of forever. Nor the fiction of salvation. You are just the one who stands beside me. Yet for this small and simple fact I am profoundly grateful. And we are skin on skin together. Warmth on warmth. For no greater purpose than the sheer joy of it. Because we choose it – and because it makes our whole world more beautiful. If there is a greater truth than this I have yet to hear of it.

Love letter # 156

When I was young I dreamt of you. I imagined things that made me shiver. Whenever I sat next to you, so close to touching you, I was riven with a desire I knew I could not act on.

Your cool exterior. Your haughty distance. This is the very image of beauty I have carried with me across the plane of the years. The measure by which I have measured others. The weight of my longing. The colour of my love.

Seeing you again – after forever – has made the decades contract to the tiny circle of a warm embrace. I open my eyes and you are there in front of me, that smile of yours still so dazzling.

And your daughter – she carries your spark in her laughter – such that my memory is ablaze. Tonight I am walking with you once more in my dreams, awash in the undimmed shimmer of your mystery, shaking like the foolish boy who loved you in terrified silence all that time ago.

I have nothing to lose now – our paths will diverge again – and so I can say now what I never could back when: how I adored you. You were the treasure of my nascent love and you remain the still perfect idol of my flawed recollection. Even the years have not dulled the splendour of your young form.

These ramblings, I realise, are irrational. But just to say them out loud. To think that you might hear me. That this might make you smile that gorgeous smile of yours. The smile that cracked me open and led me to realise that to love one another was the highest possible honour that could ever be bestowed upon mortal beings.

Love letter # 270

Today I was invisible. Sat there, pint in front of me, noise swirling around me, and the gaudy rush and bother of the party seemed to wash over me. I felt detached – unhinged from the world of warmth and recognition. I was just the lone man in the corner – the silly old fool who found himself thinking of you.

This is the freedom I fought for – my splendid isolation, my aloof lack of need. Here is my dead hunger, my self-containment in all of its solitary, untainted glory. The pristine loneliness that now conspires to empty me of breath and fill me with a space into which I can disappear.

And to think I left you for this.

My, how those heroic affirmations poured from my mouth. I fought you off with my language, boxed you up with my ideas. I confronted your honesty with an unholy disguise; and then when you were finally done I was left to walk around in the wafer thin garb of well-chosen words.

I would gladly admit to the lachrymose self-pity of the mistaken if that was what it was – but really I always knew that the bubble I called a thousand different things was just a bubble. I will not confess it to anyone else, but to you I can say that I find this so-called liberty an awfully lonely corner.

I gazed out at all those lovely, colourful people, heard the sweet burble of their conversation and was utterly and profoundly locked out from the world they moved in. Perhaps not in reality but in the much more visceral realm of my heart.

And I longed for the warmth that you so freely gave.

You were right. I just thought I was. You were real and this was the fantasy. Yet this, I am certain, is of no comfort to you. Love cannot be retrospectively applied, nor tears so easily wiped away – and anyway words have done enough damage already. Haven’t they?