Letter to my misremembered sweetheart

It is clear. I remember you hazily. Incorrectly. Does this matter? In my reconfiguring of us, much of the contradictory truth has been reduced to official fiction. Again, what of it? If I imagine you falsely, and my retrospective editing hurts no one, scarcely even me, what value exactness? Am I not better to love…

Love letter # 634 I don’t mean this to sound like obsession…but I still think of you. Not in words, or in imagined scenes, but with a strange kind of sensing. Muscle memory perhaps. Something unconscious. It is as though there is a door in space and time through which I can pass in a…

Love letter # 662 This noonday, on the Esplanade, overlooking the blue expanse, I travelled at the speed of sunshine. Across the bay of forgetting. The light must have been just so. Call it azure, cerulean, aquatint…it was the colour of belief. The belief that comes before knowing.    I was arrested mid-breath. The clatter…

Love letter # 467 In clear headed moments I know you no longer think of me as I still think of you; and I am fine with this. I do not seek to rewrite history. When you said you loved me, you meant it –  just as you did, minutes later, when you said you…

Love letter # 468 The beauty of autumn is the sweetness of memory. Especially in the gloaming. Where you reside, nigh divine and untouchable. In the waft of woodsmoke I dream of a hearth with you.  

Love letter # 775 The memory lives in every cell, archived in muscle, carried by blood. The sheer sensation of you. That shattering instant of your arrival. Everything changing. A beam of light from your eyes. The space collapsing between us. I knew what it was; yet had no idea. I simply stood in the…

Love letter # 430 It is in the bittersweet beauty of autumn that I return. The crisp azure of early afternoon, the honey gold linger of evening, the aromatic chill of dusk. In such air I once stood beside you. Almost touched you. Your dark eyes a fire inside me. Then a blink. Followed by…

Love letter # 427 A stray thought. Years stretch out, a yawn of time. You were eighteen then – and I was a fool. Together, we had little to no idea about anything. And yet, the soft landing of tenderness, like tentative footprints in powdery sand, has left its dusted outline. The shape of desire….

Love letter # 354 Time may well erode my memory of you but not how I remember. I have already forgotten the sound of your voice, the curve of your waist, the scent of your freshly washed skin. In truth, I can barely picture you now, let alone recall the soft weight of your touch….

Our love took place in silence

Our love took place in silence, beneath the veil of uttering, in rooms unfurnished. It did not feed on the touch of skin, nor brightly burn with the fire of clutching mouths. It did not bloom as flowers, it did not wear the ring. There was no need of song, for we danced between the…