Monday, 11 April 2011

To the man who is not my lover

The lawyer is a lovely man. Decent, kind and funny. Sensible. He's attentive and thoughtful: ideal husband material. My mother would love him. Could I? I don't like the way he speaks to waiters.

As I lay in bed last night it was not him I was thinking of, it was you.

I'd like to learn you. Learn your landscape. Trace the lines between freckles and moles. Hear the stories of scars and travel the curve of your spine.

I know your hands. Strong, broad, creative fingers. The nails a little dirty from a weekend of work. I know their gestures, and briefly, sometimes, their fleeting touch. A reminder that amongst the chatter we are connected, invisible to those around us. I hope.

I know your eyes. They are bright and pale. They see me, keep me close to you when words aren't always possible.

It is the age old story of poetry and pop songs.

It is simple, and bitter sweet purgatory.

With you, I am me. There is no effort, or emphasis, no hiding of parts. No masks. There is only acceptance and understanding. The calm in the eye of a storm. The world around us brings confusion and fear, the potential for hurt.

I let you talk, and say little.

But, how often in a lifetime do we have this privilege? You have wakened part of me that I'd forgotten could exist or ignite in someone else.

My phone beeps. A text from you, no words just a kiss. Ditto.

I fell in love with you too.


  1. Glad to see you have a new blog template working :)

  2. Hmmm....tis very much a holding page until I make it my own again. Still can't get the template designer working on home lap top....very frustrating!