I was a boy.
At an age well before any awareness of the passions and dreams of a man, and yet I would dream of a woman. A particular woman. She was mine. She was not maternal, nor a sister, nor a friend, but I loved her. I did not understand love. I did not seek it. But it was strong. It distracted me when I was awake, and the discomfort it gave me sometimes caused me to wish it away. It has never left me.
She had a pale face set against soft dark hair. Her voice sparkled like water, and echoed in my mind long after she spoke. In her presence I felt the warmth of her love.
Only once have I seen hands as delicate as hers.
Although I try not to, I know I still seek her.
When we first meet we will hardly touch. That will be later, very much later.
We have plenty of time and will wait for the moment.
I will hold your hand and feel the warmth of your presence.
That is all I crave, for the moment.
To me you are a woman in a painting or photograph by a friend. I visited her often, and she would speak of you. She would explain you to me – the way that close friends do when giving their descriptions of those they love. My fascination with you, in that picture, has not left me.
I remember well my feelings when I knew I would meet you. I knew that I would blush and betray my dreams.
We met. A brief exchange was all there was between us. You sat on the floor by the fire. I sat on a chair in the corner opposite you.
I had a clear view of you. I tried not to stare. I was dazzled by you. You are beautiful.
But I cannot remember you.
I can only remember the picture.
When will I see you again?
In the mirror?
A storefront window?
Behind the wheel of a car?
I will be dressed in clothes that betray me.
As they always do.
(With Gratitude to Michelle Lovric – Love letter writer extraordinaire)
