Tag Archives: Paul Ransom

The angel and her silence

It was you that I saw. Amidst the teeming. With its voice brash and colours bright. While the dance was happening. In the vivid swirl of wine and song. If I had arrived alone, for each brushing past I was lonelier still. Filling the space with empty sound.

Yet we did not speak, for there was nought to be said. At the distance of rooms and in the quiet of eyes everything necessary was understood. The angel and her silence. The sacred stillness of knowing. Behind the blur of noise and running…the clarity of hush. Here, love may be whispered in breath alone. The eternal murmur of our recognition.

When they had all gone, there you were. Quiet beauty. The sea of your gaze. And touch, so faint, so absolute. The angel arriving with nothing, leaving everything. The inexhaustible compassion of her mystery. For she will not be reduced to signs, and in her actless grace we too are granted the plenitude of her unspoken love.

As I looked into the deepening welcome of your eyes and saw the delicate creasing of your smile, there too I beheld the miracle of the angel and her silence.

Love letter # 503

There is much I have forgotten, details yielded to time and other fogs. But the body holds traces, relives the sensation. The wonder of your arrival, like the beating of butterfly wings. The rush of falling, as though desire, coded in flutters, remains, with the distortions of ordinary grind edited out and the purity of hunger tight in my gut. It is the sweetness of a gravity both abstracted and real. Fantasy strung out in the fibre of nerves. In these moments, mess and noise dissolve and the unobstructed current flows brilliant. I catch my breath, and in that liminal space, I love you like the dawn of everything.

Love letter # 494

Of course I think about touching. You must know this already. I try to hide it, but desire has a way of showing through. I see your eyes searching me, prising apart my fragile reserve. Questioning my eroding resolve.

Yet, I am duly confined to my role as watcher. Admirer. My love shall barely breath its name. This is why I avert my eyes. Why I leave early. Refuse invitation. For I know that speaking is the door to exile.

I note your scars; and I know that to reach out is to risk their bleeding. Then, I will be the monster. The one who reduces everything to sex, to blunt feeding. And you will flee. And I, newly reviled, shall fall even further from your grace.

Sometimes the truest act of love is not to act. If this is the torch I must carry, I shall walk into the nocturnal quiet. There, the bright beam shall be the absence of my gaze. The vanished devotional. Now, in the emptied auditorium of hunger, transient spectres will fade to hushed resolution, and only the silence will have eyes for you.

Love letter # 563

Even now, you reveal me to myself. As though, across time and distance, your voice in the form of echoes, magic in the guise of miasma.

I came out of the meeting late, dusk settling. Walked along the street of our past. The places we drank. Kissed. Fought. The short cuts we took back to your room. The same, yet not. You and I ten years older, everyone else ten years younger. Looking at their phones. Flashes of you in their gestures. Their laughter. The taut sheen of complexion. Unknowing actors, approximating you.

In the heady whirl, I felt both your presence and your absence. The taste of you and the dryness of thirst. Your warm gravity…and the light years. I loved you, ardent and new; and yet it was as though you never were. That I did not even dream you. Figment of figment.

Then, as I turned the corner, I saw. No closure, no final getting over. Wound as fresh as farewell, haemorrhage relentless. All I have learned is how not to notice the blood.

Now I am home. Bleeding, eyes averted. The spectacle of memory over. The theatre of loss vacated. Only the canvas of silence. Only the space to fill. And, as I breath, love without its object, wave without the crash. You without me.

 

Love letter # 437

It is hard to admit, let alone say, but yes, I do ponder the possibility of us. What’s more, we have kissed behind my eyes. In my thoughts I have heard you say clearly what I have been reading between the lines. In fantasy we have danced. And today, waking from the dream of you, the silence draws me on, as though the pressure of hinting had forced this longing into sound. Now it has formed like rainfall. Now it is falling toward you. Soon it will be weather. Do you venture out…or do you stay inside?