Tag Archives: Paul Ransom

Love letter # 792

You have populated my dreams, day and night. Last night, you placed your hand upon my knee, and I felt your warmth. It woke me. I turned over to the mirage of your presence, and in the drowsy temple of my senses I could hear your breath, circling in the darkened hush.

Walking in the blue afternoon, I watch the wave of your hair, note the sun in your eyes. You fall upon me like brightness, moving through my body like the ruffle of breeze. Still you are a vision. A dreamt of kiss. An embrace imagined. The prayer of tenderness returned.

If I have loved you in the room of disembodied desire, so too I have yearned in the realm of flesh and blood. Perhaps it is only the invented you who walks at my side, yet I have travelled long in the wake of your attention. You have said my name aloud and I have suffered the vertigo of your scent.

Therefore, I conjure you beneath sun and moon, such that I may require no such vision. So that one day soon I may close my eyes and know that you are near; and I might sleep through the night in the valley of your form.

Love letter # 464

Sometimes, your beauty is rupture. Wrenching. It rends the fabric of compromise. You stand within touching distance yet remain untouchable. The lovely details, each one sharpened. I feel them as the severing of hope. Your splendour is the sentence passed. The inexorable chasm between desire and its return.

Raher I had not seen you. For yours is the flower given elsewhere. Its perfume is the unbreachable fortress of time. It unfolds before the sun, to the bees of the season, and has not thought for the dews of the morrow.

I am that invisible mist; and though I might enfold you, mine is the vaporous touch, barely felt. Yet you are the solidity of hunger. The intolerable gravity. Force without attraction. The strained and breathless orbit of noticing. For some shall weep at stars and never know their warmth – and you shall be like fire.

Love letter # 490

Did it happen while we weren’t looking…or when we were? Was it our turning away or our insistence? Not that it makes much difference now. Knowing won’t make you love me again. Nor I you. Yet, as I ponder the detritus, I am drawn ever closer to an abrasive conclusion; that we brought down the sky in a tussle over dust. These grubby specks are the trophies of ruin. This, the Pyrrhic victory of vane and selfish campaign. If I once threw up a wall thinking to keep things together, instead it drew a line between us, entrenching rival empires, who fought till the end of time, and left the scene with nothing. Save the evidence of blood.

Love letter # 379

For I have walked the line between light and dark, and dwelled in the house without name. This I did for the love of you.

Though I have wandered far from home, and sailed without the promise of harbour, I have journeyed for the succour of your love.

I may thirst and hunger still, and shiver in a blackness that stretches beyond night, yet I am upheld by the breath of your name.

You may live at the furthest reaches of desire, and I may be in the exile of distance, yet there is no desert not crossed by the vaulting of light.

I look through the clouds, see beyond the intervening hills, gaze across the sea; and though in one moment I am blind, in the next I see nought but you.

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 years. The long distance of your promise. The marathon of my desire. Now, another autumnal turn; literal and figurative.  Your tresses are shorn. Blown away like the last wisps of summer. The high season of time. You and I in bloom.

These miles I cannot cross, save with the fleetness of love. In the wistful cinema of imagining, there you flicker. Star of the fall. Translucent siren, your song a trail of echoes, hollowed into waves, moving through me still. I surrender and am uplifted, so that I might be set down near to you.

 

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.