Unsent Letter to a Love

This is something I've been meaning to do something with for a good long time. I had intended to turn it into a poem at one point, but never got around to it - it was originally written as a letter. It's not particularly good. It's not particularly "new" or original image-wise, but when I wrote it, I meant it. Looking back on it and reading it, it's still powerful to me even if it *does* read like any angsty woman's diary entry. No, I never did have the courage to say any of this, much less send it as it was written. It makes me happy to read it even as it's still a little bit painful - mostly because I meant every word, and it was nice to feel this sort of thing. I hope the next time I feel something similar for someone, I have the courage to say it. Until then, let all my former loves tussle over who gets to be the one I loved this way *grin*


You showed me where to put my arms so I wasn’t all strangulated. Warm and safe, I would have given you space – but you pulled me closer and wrapped me up, stroked my skin softly until I couldn’t stay awake to worry about squashing you, if my rolls were showing, if I should pull the blanket up higher to hide myself.

Remember the first time you stayed the night?

You kissed me to sleep. Didn’t slink away when morning came – pulled me close for a bit, smiled, everything was okay. Still not mine, but that was okay too. Since then, the occasional night, you stay. It’s not odd, and I don’t have to lie awake wondering when you’ll push me away.

We let our hands roam for hours, you never push; I’ve never been given such freedom, such a gift. Foreplay isn’t always foreplay – sometimes I just like the feel of your limbs, the crisp hair on your arms, the warm heavy weight of you against me.

You made me feel beautiful, wanted, lovely, and cherished – what the movies promise that never really happens. Most of the way to thirty years, I had let go words like ‘lovely’ and ‘cherished.’ I put them to rest, at least as they applied to me. You gave it to me honestly, no ‘forever’ promises. I could wrap myself around you and nestle my nose in your shoulders.

I woke up and we were holding hands, back to back, asleep, I could have cried, but my heart was full and I didn’t feel the need.

Still, you weren’t mine to keep, just to hold, and I made that enough. I tried to.
When you touched me, the simple light touch of your hand on my thigh, the run of your fingers down my throat awakened my senses, and I drowned in you. I rarely feel like a whole woman, power and softness; you coaxed that from me. Your touch is an affirmation.

I wanted to ask if you wanted more, to let you know you were welcome to stay not just for the sex, not just so I could hold your hand and take you and touch you and want you, but just to come and stay and be,to lie there next to someone in the darkening shadows, just you as man and me as woman and nothing else much mattering.

I wanted to ask you if you ever get lonely.

Sometimes I get lonely with other people an arm’s length away, so that I just want to hang my head and cry. Occasionally I come into contact with someone who reminds me why I should care, but I have no great anchor – nobody I can go to and say, “Hold me, and I will hold you, and let’s be solid together for a bit.”

You’re the one I’ve wanted to crawl to when I wanted to be held, and you’re the one I wanted to see when I wanted to lavish affection, when I was pleased with the world for what it was; when I was pleased and wanted to let a man know I appreciated him, it wasn’t a movie star, or a rock star, or someone famous or artificially beautiful I wanted to run to and wrap up in my arms and kiss and maybe laugh with, it was you.

I never told you these things; I never will in my lifetime. We’re not that close.

But it hurts to think of it, because you should know.

You should know that someone notices that your eyes can go from black to chocolate to tawny brown depending on your mood.

You should know that your face is just right –for frowns, and smiles, and talking and kissing and sleeping.

You should know that you can cause a thrill by just holding someone’s hand, that you are strong enough that you feel like shelter, and human enough that someone likes to hold you tight and wish she could shelter you from the storms of the world.

Someone should tell you the timbre of your voice is just right for whispering or speaking or anything; that your hands are as kind as they are deft, and that you smell good – like clean man, no cologne stench, just you.

Someone should tell you this, but I don’t think I can.