| He writes me love letters and in them the story of us unfolds. I grazed the canvas of his thoughts, imagining his thoughtful selection of media, richly textured stationery stained with elegant script or the napkin he thought to scribble sweet nothings on instead of wiping mustard from his chin. Carved on a new bar of soap in child-like print, cherished briefly before I lathered his words into my skin. His letters were both eloquently penned poetry and raw, undiluted thoughts harvested onto unsuspecting paper. Tangible artifacts of love�s evolution from primal vestiges of physical infatuation, when his body was the vessel of his desire, words clinging to my flesh like leaves on my window after summer�s storm. From conception, when words were timid, uncertain and intentionally detached- the mask hiding his fear of feeling, fear of falling. Platonic friendship surprisingly deepened on his pages, unexpectedly transforming us, eternally bonding energies, birthing new spirits. Mature, vintage love, solid and profound, appreciative of our constancy and whimsy, grateful to be loved as he has the idea of love before it wore my face. In a sun streaked corner of caf� he sat scribing the answer to love�s question. Under azure blue sky ripe with celestial fruits, he lay composing the intricacies of longing. Letters came from near and far, some heralding desire across timeless space, evidence of his heart growing fonder. Others written from across the room, quiet conversations inked in the essence of his silence. Letters arrived when our peace was lost, ambassadors of compromise, treaties redeemed for forgiveness when next we met. His words spoke with the voice of an apologetic sax... sorrowful, elongated notes that crept beneath my strength, bled between the lines and mingled with my tears. Our love�s lexicon archived for translation into kisses and climaxes. He envelopes pieces of me inside each written song. RLT �2002 |
| Love Letters |
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