You sent me a letter saying that I still show up in your dreams.
I recognized your handwriting straight away, the envelope warm in my hand, the morning sun had shone on the mail box, heating your words with its inquisitive rays.
It was only yesterday that I had stopped hoping you would find me. It was only yesterday that my heart stopped trying to make its escape from my chest to yours. For so many months, it had failed to find its nesting place within you.
If I have shown up in your dreams it’s because you tore the soul from my body.
My soul still wanders. After a year of dragging it around with you from place to place, with promises of return, you left it by the side of the road—forgotten, lost in the exhaust of your little French car.
Perhaps when I gave up, my soul did not. Perhaps when my tears finally dried, my soul picked itself up from the path of resistance I had been on and silently flew to where you were.
I walked slowly back to my porch. Sitting on the swing, looking towards the horizon, I allowed the tears to flow once more.
I was afraid of your letter, even though the thought of you, pen in hand, thinking about what you would write made me long for you with a renewed desperation.
I know you. You would have had that intense look on your face, brow furrowed, the pen so small yet mighty in your muscled hands, leaning back in your chair, legs long under the table, coffee in the tumbler, your stubble a shadowy reminiscence of the barely drifted night.
“My love.” You started with these words.
Were there no others that could have cut me quicker?
The last time you said those words I was sleeping and you had your bag slung over your shoulder, leaning over me in our lustful bed, and had said your goodbyes.
My eyes were full of sleep and my ears full of the love words you had whispered the night before. Those words that had fallen like an early spring rain while your hands made magic on my skin, now scrape my memory with sand-papery jaggedness.
I heard you say that it was time to go, that the night had brought new visions for your journey, but I think that your soul had long harbored an intention for flight. You picked the perfect moment to say goodbye—I was still soft with ecstasy and my heart opened wide by your skilful romance.
You’ve always know how to crack me open like a Joe-Pop-Eye seed that when caressed just right with the fingertips spills itself onto the world with hopeful enthusiasm for the soil it might discover.
The moment you noticed the flicker of pain in my eyes, your handsome face and devastating presence slipped for my world like a shooting star moving through the heavens, always too fleeting an experience to hang on to.
For many days I sat at the edge of my bed, trying to re-capture the feel of your skin on mine, the burn of your lips on my breasts, the expert way you had of rolling my nipples with your tongue—these things brought insanity to my door, knocking so loudly that I had to let her in. She stayed for months and months on end, playing with my memories like a harpist who just cannot leave her instrument aside.
And now your words burn into my hands as I hold them trembling, each syllable of your confession a strike of an anvil against its intended work of art. Am I your work of art, the thing you knead and mold to your pleasure until I am just what you need me to be?
Because if you want to, I am willing to lay myself down for your pleasure, to allow what you need, to be cast into a form that gives rise to those moans that made me fall apart in your arms.
I am still so weak. Is it because what you have is what I need or because your love for me, when you are here, melts the core of my resolve? Or is it because of that moment when I first fell into your slate blue eyes and drowned in what was reflected there?
I don’t know anything anymore because the cadence of your breathing still haunts my sleep and my skin still jumps to the dreams I have of you pressing yourself inside me and your wicked smile when I arch towards release.
I should burn these words before they leave their scars. I should tear my love for you with each tear of the paper I am holding. I should make myself blind to your well planned strategy for victory over my sadness.
“My Love”, you wrote…
I left you with the westward wind, on a day when my heart had grown restless and was longing for adventure. I should have known that you would have followed with the mist of love you had sprinkled on my soul.
The road has been intriguing but not as intriguing as you.
I am still lost to your mystery. I am still weaving stories to convince myself that I need to be free.
But my freedom has cost me what I found in your embrace. Freedom tastes as bitter as the rind of the limes you used to make me chew as you sat astride my lap, to prevent scurvy as you had laughingly insisted, all the while knowing that it would make me crave the sweet of your sex on my lips.
You certainly had your curious ways. Those ways are what wake me up in the middle of the night, calling your name, aching for your mouth on mine.
You tasted like a peach warmed by the afternoon sun, the fuzzy skin electric on my tongue.
I need you still. But perhaps I am too late? Perhaps you will not forgive my sudden departure and my many promises to find solace in your love once more?
Have too many moons shone upon the remnants of our togetherness?
Has the sun set on your passion for me?
The road, no matter how it winds, leads straight back to you. I’ve tried them all. I know.
I am on my way back.
Has the wind told you so? You were always able to feel me in the elements. You called me the wizard to your witchery. You used to say that I blackened your soul, while you brought light to my darkness.
But I’m not sure, I think you may have cast a spell on me and then left me to writhe my way out of it.
I may be speaking madness, but in the end, that is all I have left if I don’t have you.
Look up! Watch the road that winds before your ivy covered home. I will look for a sign. A sign of your welcome.
My mind is shattered with hope, my body aches to once more feel the silk of your skin against mine, my mouth is yours to take the minute I see your smile.
Scatter your wishes for us like wildflowers in a field. I will pluck them and bring you a bouquet of what might be.
There is no freedom without the net you have always had me in. I should have known that to be captured by you would not mean that I must die to myself. I should have known that to love you is to know the flight of a sparrow.
Watch the road, my love!
I looked up one day and saw you there. Your finely honed body in silhouette against my favorite stand of oaks. Your face serene, accepting of whatever I might say. But there was nothing left to say, nothing left to discuss.
Words never came easily to me when you looked like that—open, vulnerable, genuine.
Of course I’d forgiven you.
I waved and you almost crumbled. I would have too, but I needed my strength.
I knew what love you’d make to me, I knew that after that you’d f*ck me wild and make me forget that you’d ever been gone. You’d taste my forgiveness like fine wine when I’d find pleasure on your tongue.
And you would remember that with me, there was always room for you to be you, I don’t want to own you. I just want to swim in the current of your most secret self. I want to feel your vastness. I want to fly with you to where angels roam.
You’re home, my love, you’re home.
Author: Monika Carless
Editor: Katarina Tavčar
Photo: Author’s own