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 # 463
I can see you’re in denial. Your closed eyes can’t hide the fire. For I have that flame in me. It’s the light by which I see.
Love letter # 286
It was to your song that I danced. It was for your dance that I played. Into your deserts I went thirsty. Into your night – so bright. Along your wild roads. To the beauty of your door. That I might be beside you. And you beside me. In harmony.
Love letter # 321
I recognised you in the gaps – the tiny spaces left between busyness, bubbliness and booze. Your dark heart, shining like a beautiful star. The one who yearns, who dips and soars, who wants something more. I saw her in the silences, in the way her eyes sometimes pierced the innumerable distances. Lonely, wondering, full of extraordinary fire.
She is the one I have not stopped thinking about. She is the one I would fly across the sea to meet again. To dance with her, slow and soft. To let her know. That love is the way – dangerous and dazzling – to heal the wounds of self in the mirror of the other.
Love letter # 371
It’s the playful glint in your eye. The smirking raised brow. The smile that seems to know pleasurable secrets. These and other things.
Like the velvet of your skin. Its downy feathers. Those plush and fruitful lips of yours. Even the way you walk. To me these are like treasures. Better still, the ecstasy of falling.
Whenever it’s the two of us – speaking in that magic tongue we invented – lighting fires as and when – I come to in Arcadia. For there is nothing so simple and clean as this – nothing more real than the realm of your kiss.
Love letter # 336
There was a place in time where the light shone bright and brief for you and I. Today it illuminates our memory. Now we stand looking across the line of our separate lives. Two strands, fluttering near in the chance of a breeze. How much has changed – yet what remains! A thing so pure and unsullied. The very spark itself. Sun still sparkling on the back of a turquoise sea.
The blind, egalitarian river of time is sweeping us downstream, disrupting our private summer with the grit of a common autumn. Yet – next to you – even for this serendipitous minute – the bloom is heady with the scent of promise; which, going unfulfilled, becomes a brand new sweetness in a secluded garden of bittersweet treasures. Where even the years shall not dim its loveliness.
Love letter # 491
It is time that keeps us apart. Or more precisely, years. My age, your youth. My yesterdays, your boundless tomorrows.
It is the heedless, evolutionary logic of mortality which shall shut me out from the dazzle your love – which has closed your eyes to the lustre of mine. For I am no mere dreamer; I loiter instead on the sidelines of time, not even daring to imagine your arms about me. Indeed, I know that even to confess this is to condemn myself. In the old and the ugly, love is a kind of malediction.
Yet what more appropriate response to beauty is there but gentle wonder? The heart melting. The soul on fire.
This – and a thousand other reasons. Useless. No warm and private nights. No naughtiness. Not even the whisper of a kiss. Just the banality of years. Your lovers, my silence. Me leaving, you not noticing.
So here – the flower I carry. Persistent little bloom. Heady perfume. I only need breathe it in to know; and knowing, I am beside you – and you are smiling at me – and everything – absolutely everything – is beautiful.