Love letter # 748 They say that first impressions last. This is not the case with you. At first, all I noticed was your exterior; that abrasive, sarcastic outer layer you project. It pushed me backwards. Next, I met you with your party face on. Life and soul and so on. But then you let…

Love letter # 697 Now that I have seen you, I cannot un-see. Until today, you were a name in a group chat. Tonight, you are the lingering sensation of a fine-boned handshake, a picture of wide open eyes, and the thought of coffee-silk skin. Did you hold my gaze for a moment more than…

Love letter # 545 I saw you in the evening. You turned your golden head toward me. Eternity moving slow. Some things you remember with the circle of breath.

Love letter # 0.1 All the light did was shine. And there you were.

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 # 862 When you moved away, you took the world with you. A gutted replica remained. The outline of something, nearly nothing. I traversed the hollow streets – the excavated avenues – and how they did echo. The empty rooms we left behind. A resonant quiet in place of song. That was years…

Love letter # 517 For what have I yielded, for what airs have I thrown up shutters to inrush? What hath impelled me to cede once guarded ground? Tis not for God or other compulsion. Tis not for reckless chance. I do not seek release from solitude, nor the flattery of the becoming eye. Yet,…

Love letter # 474 The once tangible force of your presence has become a kind of archaeology. Fossilised remains. Dead pictures, pressed flat by time. The world we once fashioned with our tender belief compressed to a hush of breath. A clock ticks. It counts the leftover jewels in our crown. We, who made as…

Le retour du printemps

… Then they were in their spring, their bright emergent hope. Girls. Boys. Budding into sex and fumbling, tender belief. On the crest of hormones and heartache. Theirs was the eternity of boundless tomorrow. The widescreen romance of aching desire and the blizzard lust of newly invented love. Here the peaks of exception; vaulting the…