once upon a time
A man a long time ago, who wrote and made beautiful things. The first person who wrote me love letters, and these made me uncomfortable and thrilled in equal measures.
Thrilled because I have Venus-Neptune and love and yearning are the songs my drummer marches to. Uncomfortable because I didn't believe him. Uncomfortable because he was a beautiful man (too beautiful for me I thought) who spun magic quite deftly with his words and I could feel myself responding to the pull.
I don't know what he loved. Some vision, some idea of me. The idea of being swept away.
To him I was a sorceress (he called me his witch) and I think he was drawn to me as an otherworldly creature, but I wanted him to recognise me for all of me- my ordinary self and my aches and flaws and scars.
There was nothing physical between us, except for one kiss that the snow kept, like a secret.
I regret sometimes that we weren't lovers but I was younger, and more scared and I thought that love meant devastation (and several years ago it did).
And because I never considered that he might have been in love, it didn't occur to me until the other day that he might have hurt.
I found his letters the other day.
They seem such a curious reminder of things I had completely forgotten- looking through time and seeing a tall man and my younger self- as though they were not echoes of me but of a past life lived centuries ago and the man and the woman both seem strangers.
memory is funny that way.
Of course, there are other women. But none have eyes as dark as yours, or your way of biting their lower lip; None have your gentle calm, or your way of smiling with thier eyes or looking down to hide that smile. None can find their way in and out of hidden worlds, or show me hidden world in an old mirror.
...
Sometimes, when I walk the streets of our town I still think I see the echoes of you in it. Out of the corner of my eyes I think i see you standing there, with that veil of snow upon your hair and my heart beats- if wishes were wings I'd be where you are.
These days the passage down my street seems light to me with thoughts of you, and your smile, your shining eyes and your gentleness... and I sleep lightly as though your own well wishes have found thier way to me like a cool hand upon my face.
I wish you kind and gentle dreams and a smile to greet you in the morning.
...
Did you weave spells in your dark hair?
Perhaps you are a spell.
There's such a lightness that you bring.
...
The end of winter nears, my enchantress. The snow has melted but not the ghost of you.
Thrilled because I have Venus-Neptune and love and yearning are the songs my drummer marches to. Uncomfortable because I didn't believe him. Uncomfortable because he was a beautiful man (too beautiful for me I thought) who spun magic quite deftly with his words and I could feel myself responding to the pull.
I don't know what he loved. Some vision, some idea of me. The idea of being swept away.
To him I was a sorceress (he called me his witch) and I think he was drawn to me as an otherworldly creature, but I wanted him to recognise me for all of me- my ordinary self and my aches and flaws and scars.
There was nothing physical between us, except for one kiss that the snow kept, like a secret.
I regret sometimes that we weren't lovers but I was younger, and more scared and I thought that love meant devastation (and several years ago it did).
And because I never considered that he might have been in love, it didn't occur to me until the other day that he might have hurt.
I found his letters the other day.
They seem such a curious reminder of things I had completely forgotten- looking through time and seeing a tall man and my younger self- as though they were not echoes of me but of a past life lived centuries ago and the man and the woman both seem strangers.
memory is funny that way.
Of course, there are other women. But none have eyes as dark as yours, or your way of biting their lower lip; None have your gentle calm, or your way of smiling with thier eyes or looking down to hide that smile. None can find their way in and out of hidden worlds, or show me hidden world in an old mirror.
...
Sometimes, when I walk the streets of our town I still think I see the echoes of you in it. Out of the corner of my eyes I think i see you standing there, with that veil of snow upon your hair and my heart beats- if wishes were wings I'd be where you are.
These days the passage down my street seems light to me with thoughts of you, and your smile, your shining eyes and your gentleness... and I sleep lightly as though your own well wishes have found thier way to me like a cool hand upon my face.
I wish you kind and gentle dreams and a smile to greet you in the morning.
...
Did you weave spells in your dark hair?
Perhaps you are a spell.
There's such a lightness that you bring.
...
The end of winter nears, my enchantress. The snow has melted but not the ghost of you.