Unwritten Letters

If only love letters were my style, my forte. If they sprang from something unbearably hot, like a fistful of the sun; if they sprang from what was so obviously the true flower of Beauty and from the radiance of Love that Beauty clings to; if they spoke to her heart like wine and open sea; if only, if only ... But this is not me. Not my style. Not my forte. Not me. Love and Beauty visit me to be sure. I fall before them and sigh like everyone else. Awesome to behold, terrible to possess, wonderful as temptation. everything said of them is true; and if I could, I would sing them to you with all the truth a human being may lay claim to. My passion would unfold. You would sigh and swoon, or kiss me endlessly.

Then in some quite field, or a busy city sidewalk at night I'd tell you what I love about you. First, how I love the whole of you. The one and only exact combination of thoughts, curves, stories, words, experiences and eye lashes that I imagine caressing me when you curl next to me in bed. Your soul, your heart, your skin and your touch that is like no other. My skin, my heart, my soul have memorized them all in a way my mind alone could never comprehend. Next ... next, the particulars: your easy laugh, your kindness, your determination, your quick mind, and each of the million places I've longed to kiss. I'd go on. I'd go on, yet ...

I'm not sure I would believe any of it myself if I tried to write a love letter like that. Not that I would doubt my own veracity. My doubts and fears about Love itself would creep in somewhere. Love is the goddess invoked when we haven't anything left to say. She comes where words end, so my love letter never begins. Unwritten, it awaits you.