Tag Archives: Love letters

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.

Love letter # 278

As though no time whatever had passed – only we had gotten older. That awesome light. The very form of you. That golden thread. My heart in full flood. The raindrop returning to its home in the sea. You beside me. Now I see how truly unimportant everything else was. Is. Just to be near you. To know once more. Not for a second did the stars fade out. As though eternity blinked and everything was beautiful once more.

Love letter # 448

Love is like a carpark sometimes. Y’know, circling round, looking for somewhere to pull in. Hoping someone might let you in. There’s a distinctly numeric quality to it; something banal and utilitarian when viewed through a certain prism. Especially for those of us not blessed with the beauty, wealth or status aphrodisiac.

Into this category I most certainly fit. Just one of the many. A number plate in a multi-storey parking bay. Could be anyone really.

How fortunate I am then, that for reasons I simply cannot fathom, you hit upon me. You could surely have chosen others equally as suited – if not better.

Unspectacular though I am, I am not so foolish as to pick apart your reasons. Rather, I remain utterly grateful. In the lottery of selection that we ordinary folk are effectively condemned to, it looks like my numbers came up this time.

Honestly, I could kiss you for it. 🙂 xx

Love letter # 402

Was this how it was?

When we were together they could never hurt us. In our world there was no language – simply recognition. The song that played deep inside your heart was singing its heart out in mine.

Was that it – or did I make it up? Now I’ll never know. Just believe.

For by believing I can feel those arms around me. Sense that magic on the surface of my skin – little bumps, hairs on end. As though time had not flown. Doors not closed.

It may be a delusion – but what a gorgeous mirage to thirst for.

Here in the desert, I dream of flowers. Close my eyes and smell them. And in the ordinary walk of life, I am only ever a thought of you away from the presence of wonder – and therefore transformed.

Because, at the nearing of the hour, it will be joys such as these I shall ponder – and they shall fill the void with beauty. As you once did.

Love letter # 595

I woke up with my heart in pieces this morning – for in my dream I was by your side and you were like the angel I had always imagined. The girl who melted everything.

Yet you and I both know that in this more solid world such hazy visions do not withstand the force of human frailty. It is the irrefutable difference between these two poles – the hoped for and the actual – that broke me open. In the realm of sleep we loved each other; as though there were no lines between us. In the daylight we do not even speak.

Last night you said that you still loved me. In that sweet cloud I believed you. But of course, you never did. You simply tolerated me. Put up with a fool and his unwanted desires. Told whatever lies you felt were appropriate. For my part, I looked past all the evidence, blinded by hunger. By a weakness stronger than self-respect.

If you were the one who abused, I was the one who allowed it. Mine was the longing. The void. The loneliness. Yours was the air that rushed to fill the vacuum I created. You could have been more honest – much more so – but you were as beholden to your fears as I was to mine. Though I am not responsible for your appalling behaviour, I am 100% culpable in mine. I wanted that beautiful dream so much – that fantasy version of you – that in a way my folly engineered your Machiavellian response. Perhaps this is why my heart is breaking right now.

Or maybe because it took a dream for me to allow you the room to love me truly in return.