A letter from an old lover
So I’ve been having a massive clear out, and found that I’d kept this romantic letter that an old flame had written me, back in 2016.
Time to put it on the internet so it can be immortalized and riffed to shreds! :D We grew up around the same area, but he’d gone to Trinity College in Cambridge and would often dazzle me with his wording and intelligence, and so I demanded a love letter as a token. Our relationship eventually ended over time, when we didn’t see each other as much and fell out of love.
To this day, I’ve never received a letter, text or message quite like this, nor do I ever expect to receive it’s like again. So dear reader, you’ll be reading two years of a relationship in one letter, I hope you enjoy it as I have.
“My Beautiful,
The time you have graciously spent with me these past few months has reduced me to a grinning child, every time we met and I was encircled by the patron spirits attending on you who know your beauty - not feeling merely, feeling often being the perishable veil of true conviction - knowing one other impulse besides: to bind us to each other.
How else do I explain my enchantment with you if not by recourse to otherworldly mischief and wonder on your part? Looking upon your lips - a meal more delicious and enflaming than all the sweet and savoury delights of earth or God’s kitchen. Your curves extending long to the hips I love to hold when I move from behind to surprise with a kiss on the ear and neck, feeling the gaps in my soul soar together at the richness of your articulations when expounding on sorbet and your favourite products from the frozen aisle.
Such are details of the artwork, none it’s fundamental answer, even together impotent compared to her full power. Never before meeting you did I understand what it meant for a hapless mind to be in thrall to beauty, thrown into passion naked and unshielded.
As I write, the true nature of your power over me pushes through the widening cracks in my rationalities. These feelings intensify themselves, searching for explanation, order and reason dishonours them. With you I take pleasure in confusion, lost in the self-feeding intoxication you inspire.
Such is the smell of your hair, the unapologetic honesty of the words dropping off that tall teasing tongue, the very substance of your body, which I hold tight to remind myself that you possess riches inside yourself to bear me through any poor forecast or the stubborn pains of past obstacles whose wounds take time and living to heal.
You have helped me see beauty: seeing your face allows me to to feel it more shapely on every occasion. The experience of your beauty impresses itself hard enough on the mind to melt it, it’s first merit lost in the new fire, your voice, the one thing I hear amidst the flames burning in my chest. Speak, ******, to seal me away with you, kiss me more, let me feel your tones on me to dull the droning world and take me where beauty’s ruler’s hold sway.
You, like the pleasures of beauty, are infinite, inexhaustible. Have me with you for the future that we might better know our pasts, into which my present dissolves as I accept you into my heart, and today’s ecstasy resolves itself into the hardbound tomes of memory.
Fill my heart. Blind me to all but you, punish me with cold when your skin is absent. Give me yourself, kiss as if to kill; your kiss, our joy squeezed to a point in time between hungry mouths, the grappling softness a sustenance for time wasted, used on other pursuits unrelated to our kiss, hence useless.
Kiss me, ******, that I can live with the sheer life unknown to me when I had not the fortune of you.
With love,
Your Delicious Delight.
(For context, we’d meet after work, and I’d complain in colourful language about the customer’s I’d had that day, whilst buying sorbet and ice cream from the frozen aisle. We’d have it together later, whilst watching art house films and playing PS4 games.)
