Love letter # 419
Your beauty is such that it hurts. So golden. Unattainable. An almost perfect sheen. And mine is the rapture of the broken in awe. The swoon of the hesitant.
Beauty, often as not, seeks damage – and damage finds solace in beauty. We always want the opposite of what we have. Opposites attract, right? Like magnets. Electrons and protons.
Not this time though. We will simply orbit and wonder. Maybe wobble off course for a moment. A glitch in our separate journeys. Eyes across a crowd. A nearness so brief and splendid – the euphoria of a breath withheld.
Perhaps it is not necessary to collide – merely to brush. For the night to be lit for a blink. Not even for the length of a kiss. Just the spark of possibly. Like angels pricking splinters in our skin. Pearls of blood. Red as knowing.
And then you are gone. Your beauty recombined with the indistinct. My heart like the memory of flames. Embers like diamonds. The way you shone – and the lovely shadow that cooled me down.
Love letter # 336
There was a place in time where the light shone bright and brief for you and I. Today it illuminates our memory. Now we stand looking across the line of our separate lives. Two strands, fluttering near in the chance of a breeze. How much has changed – yet what remains! A thing so pure and unsullied. The very spark itself. Sun still sparkling on the back of a turquoise sea.
The blind, egalitarian river of time is sweeping us downstream, disrupting our private summer with the grit of a common autumn. Yet – next to you – even for this serendipitous minute – the bloom is heady with the scent of promise; which, going unfulfilled, becomes a brand new sweetness in a secluded garden of bittersweet treasures. Where even the years shall not dim its loveliness.
Love letter # 265
What was once a wind whipped, steely chill is now the softly folding mist. Hard edges turned to comfortable blur. The colour of memory wistful and lovely. Sad howl rendered mellow song.
They say ‘tis nothing more than time but I feel it is not so; for in this gentle distance circles the thankful breath of grace. The rhythm of a passion cooled – the life of a love still beating.
This is the calm of acceptance – a space where flowers bloom without the rigour of daily tending. It is the beauty we inherited from the respectful closing of the book that used to be you and me.
Once we had a fire. Now we have a warmth. Where once we fought over an impossible future, now we share the peace of a past that served us both well. This is a legacy at once more subtle and powerful than the mere passing of days – because like the light that drew us together, it is the steady and eternal beacon of harbour. And here, at last, no storms shall set these ships asunder.
Love letter # 340
When I loved you in the absence of detail there was only love; and in this way I held you in my arms and looked into your eyes and saw that I was not alone. Thank you.
Love letter # 462
I had a dream – the one of you that didn’t quite turn out. It was made from the sadness in your eyes and from the detailed loveliness of your bony fingers. Carved from the litheness of your form. Painted in the dusty alabaster of your skin. Made from the stories I wished were true.
Yet we are not the dreams of others, just as the world is not a map of our desire. You were not the fantasy I created and I was not the narrative you penned. But it was these two figures who fell in love. We were ones who followed. Hoping. Wanting so much to believe.
Now, as we sit with the blank stare of reality, we have something else. Easy to call it bitterness. Smug to call it wisdom. More beautiful, I feel, to say that this is what we made from the fire. Not just the ruins – but the light.
Love letter # 678
Today would have been 25 years for you and I. Never mind that it’s not – for that lovely fire around which we first gathered as barely more than moths – still burns in its hearth. I know that you know this, even if you do not think of it today: and this is why I can smile at the memory of that distant but still intoxicating flame. Because we made something everlasting from it. Not a home perhaps – but a promise unbroken. To love without fear and judgement. To know that our shadows are the evidence of our light. And that, at day’s end, when all the shouting is done, good hearts will find one another and share the beautiful quiet.
My love, as ever,
Love letter # 233
In this fevered imagination of mine, I am in your arms. You are lying next to me, lips pressed onto mine, your eyes ablaze with the idea of us. We are beasts and beauties all at once, melted in the furnace of our touch. We sweat to be together. Sigh to be as one. Then sleep like angels sated. And on the morrow we awake – and know it to be true.
Love letter # 317
To you – finally – I can speak. Show. Become. And all the lies – so many fucking lies – they are no longer required. Like the frontier undefended. Ramparts abandoned. For in you, all the reason I ever needed to destroy the masks. Because you alone have seen me without the need for the shallow acclamation of pretty. Or the lurid glitter of victory. As I see you. Even in the thrall of darkness I can find you with this compass – as you shall come to me. For tonight every single star shall be ours to behold.
Love letter # 248
Hindsight maybe cruel, even unfair – but it illuminates the patterns that repeat in our lives. The dramas that play out over and over. And it makes us ask the question. What exactly was it that I thought I wanted?
I can see now why you left. I pushed, you pulled. I wasn’t sure, so I pushed some more. You ran. I never allowed you the space to love me because I was at you the whole time. Your love – however great it may have been – got smothered by my need for proof. Because it wasn’t really love I was craving. It was certainty.
(It is an impossible religion. Please do not convert to it.)
Yet for all that, whenever I think of you, I still miss you. As ridiculous as things became, I never forgot the fire in your eyes. Or the way your tears welled. For I remember the light – and the hand that put it out.
Love letter # 361
Someone asked me why it was that you and I split up. You two seemed perfect, they said. The irony here is that it was a failure to be perfect that caused us to separate.
In the beginning, we were one another’s heroes. In the end we were just ordinary. Not awful or abusive – just flawed and far less shiny. Perhaps it’s even fair to say that a touch of boredom set in. And there’s nothing sexy or wonderful about that.
I used to castigate myself for all my failings. Now I only regret not forgiving you for yours. I loved when you were fabulous but I felt let down when you weren’t. I wonder sometimes if it was a fairy tale I married; rather than a woman. I know that I played the prince for you – kept the act up for as long as I could. Did you play the dream girl for me, my love?
And for a time, of course, it was magical. Sometimes I am incredibly nostalgic for that. Other times I feel that it set the bar too high – never gave us a chance at being human.
I can say all this now because the strength we did have together I have never even come close to finding again. Partly, this could be the effect of aging. I can accept that. Almost smile at it. But what if that’s not the reason? What if we split up because we were too greedy? Too stupid to see that the broken down model we had was better than anything else on the market.
Most days I try not to give this thought oxygen – but tonight, as I contemplate the quiet cold of the empty bed and the knowledge that I will wake up alone – I am choking on it.