Love letter # 22
There may well be a god – I cannot know – and some grand purpose may well have been assigned – but this would be news to me. People talk about ‘life lessons’, about ‘meant to be’ – I do not claim to understand these things.
But when you’re near me …
What is it that I am supposed to know, other than to love you? Tell me what higher thing there is. If this world is a machine and we are just genes and everything beautiful is an illusion – stupid me, I’m still a believer.
Because you are the stars to me …
I am no saint, no seer, just a man who loves you; and I have nothing more to give than this. It may not be wisdom – and it is surely not riches – but like the rain … it can bring flowers.
Love letter # 12
Someone said it again the other day – oh, you two are so good together. Naturally I had to wonder if she was blind. Are these cracks not visible?
But then I stopped.
She wasn’t being naïve (she’s a little too old for that). Neither was she simply filling in blank air. She was recognising something that we are danger of forgetting. There is a golden thread between us – I can feel it tugging on my conscience. It’s reminding me to get over myself and take note of the riches I have.
Whenever I whinge or snipe I know it’s not right. I know that a dirty dish or a wrongly folded towel is not a hanging offence – and I understand that the current that once made you want to touch me all the time flows more sedately now. In truth, these are barely splinters – and I will never let them splinter us.
Yes, let us break up if we must – but for something earth shattering – not just tiredness or fusty familiarity. We’re so much better than that … everyone says so.
So until that apocalypse breaks over our thick heads, I suggest we listen to our friends this time. I for one can guarantee you it’s not too late. And even if it was – I’m sure I would still wait up for you.
Indeed, I daresay I would wait a lifetime for you.
Love letter # 93
Why am I still hungry? Because I am not satisfied.
And why am I not satisfied? Because I am starving.
If I could live with the love you gave rather than pine for the love I dream of taking – then I would be bathed in light right now.
This black night – it is nought but my wanting.
And this hunger – it is nought but a failure to eat.
I will not cry out in the darkness for your hands to hold me – I will reach out instead to you, my love … and give of everything.
Then I Coould Dream
I look back now and I wonder what I saw in you. I wonder if I saw you at all. Maybe I was I blind. Maybe I was staring at a mirror.
Was this what I wanted? Or just what I came to accept?
Perhaps I know too much about you. Maybe I don’t know you at all.
Did you lie to me all these years? Did you say the words? … Did you let me?
I look at you and I see you there – dressed in the remnants of my desire – just as I wear the faded skin for you.
But now these masks hide nothing – not a single line – and all that’s left is all too real.
I wish we were strangers – for then I could dream of you again. It was much better that way.
At the end of the day, even the angels turn out to be ordinary. Oh well.
And now all my desire has come down to this – waiting in this room with you – waiting for the cue to leave.
If I said I was ready – right now – in the very next breath … would you?
[This letter is an extract from a dance theatre piece called ‘An Incomplete Map of Desire]
Love letter # 42
Now that I have woken up it is abundantly clear that you are using me. However, before you yell out in protest please note that I am not bothered by this. I have no wish to cast stones. We are all sinners, one way or another – and I am yet to meet a single saint, least of all in the mirror.
Now that my eyes are open I am free to love you without the bleary fuzz of early romance. It is a wonderful thing to love in the fullness of light.
You are not the perfect girl – you are just the woman I adore. You can try to exploit my affections, you can tempt me with promises you will never keep, you can lie to my face – I will not be taken in. Nor shalI I surrender to bitterness.
You may think me a fool. Indeed, you are probably laughing at me now, scorning me to your equally cynical friends – but we are all guilty of bitching.
I say all this not out of some deluded notion of noble self-sacrifice but simply because I want you.
I too am imperfect. I too grasp and deceive. Maybe I’m even using you. Nonetheless, I love you in my own broken way and offer you my own skewed brand of dedication.
Perhaps you may still have a use for it.