Beautiful Lady,
Having just returned from a long trek to and from Ashgrove to meet with one of my good friends, the famous artist Barek, I find that my thoughts again turn to you. Should I not tell you? Know that you have been the last thing I think of as Sandman takes me and the first thing I think on hearing the dawn and consciously drawing morning breath.
With each subsequent breath, I wonder at your own breath... should that the world have no wind nor friction, would I feel that breath on my cheek across the gulf that currently stands between us? I think sometimes I can feel it, as I feel the wash from the sparkle in your eyes even outside sight, and yet I rue that gulf. That I could reach out and touch you would not lessen the thoughts of your breath against my cheek; it would merely add more to the experience.
Here I use the term 'mere' in the same inappropriate usage as a castle being a mere house, or a falcon being a mere bird, or perhaps that my fluttering heart for you is mere limerance. Fear not! Limerance is sweet and exciting with you and your character; the warmth in my chest is not an illusion and has not faded; your voice I yearn to hear and your lips I long to kiss. But that this could lead to something that is greater still is incredible to perceive. Could it?
Such a shock it was to find that I had to forcibly wrench my mind from thinking of you to ensure the qualities of my attentions were not in jeopardy. Even with this intent, it is clear the subject matter is pale and lifeless in comparison. That I could relinquish the curves of a graph to carefully study your curves and lines; cease pursuing client requirements and pursue yours in terms of companionship, affection and attention, diligently and with purpose; stop encouraging witless people to submit required forms and instead encourage you to shine such that I may adore more of this shine myself, selfishly.
But perhaps I digress too far and I have other matters of state to urgently attend.
Know that you are in my thoughts, always,
YYYY
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
Monday, 21 May 2012
Hearing your voice - the light behind your eyes...
Dearest Lady XXXX,
Hearing your voice - the light behind your eyes, and those soft sweet lips whispering into my ears; it has left me quite breathless. Forgive me for thinking that perhaps in your absence the spell that you have over me would wear a little; perhaps providing some solitude that I may remember what it was before I met such womanly radiance.
Not that I desire this solitude of thought. Believe me, my desire is not to be wasted on such a concept when I have you to behold; the memory of your lips on mine and the warmth of your body against mine. I would have you infuse my thoughts, spirit, and body with your own. When I hold you tight, it is never tight enough and I hope it will never be tight enough. I wish to always want to be closer to you, to share.
But in understanding that you have a long and perilous journey ahead of you, I bid you adieu and hope that thoughts of me sprinkle spice to your day rather than overpower the main course.
And know that my lips will always be waiting - yearning and aching - to touch yours.
Faithfully, YYYY
Hearing your voice - the light behind your eyes, and those soft sweet lips whispering into my ears; it has left me quite breathless. Forgive me for thinking that perhaps in your absence the spell that you have over me would wear a little; perhaps providing some solitude that I may remember what it was before I met such womanly radiance.
Not that I desire this solitude of thought. Believe me, my desire is not to be wasted on such a concept when I have you to behold; the memory of your lips on mine and the warmth of your body against mine. I would have you infuse my thoughts, spirit, and body with your own. When I hold you tight, it is never tight enough and I hope it will never be tight enough. I wish to always want to be closer to you, to share.
But in understanding that you have a long and perilous journey ahead of you, I bid you adieu and hope that thoughts of me sprinkle spice to your day rather than overpower the main course.
And know that my lips will always be waiting - yearning and aching - to touch yours.
Faithfully, YYYY
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
I am writing to request permission...
Dear XXXX,
I am writing to request permission to express some of the feelings I have had recently, but am somewhat hesitant as the fear of the statement that poetry is not appreciated does lend a hint of a challenge. There is a warrior spirit at my heart, which is not the same as a thug or bully, that would address this challenge, perhaps, through the arts of courtly love.
Seasons have caressed the globe since I last put my hand to such a task, but I am willing to make the attempt to rekindle an historical art and old skill. The heart that speaks through my hands onto this page does not follow 13th Century rules of such 'courtly love' as I cannot be interested in keeping my feelings secret, nor does my belief include that the chivalric expression of affection be limited to those who are unable to execute upon said affection.
The perfect traditional courtly love is forever and irrevocably unrequited, only to share, at most, furtive glances across a dinner table or tournament field. My words and feelings do not come as this tradition, but from this tradition and expressed through a chivalric construct that is mine and mine alone.
I would express these words and the concepts they represent to you with the desire to know you better and a want, a yearning, to be closer to you. For me, there is no reason to hold anything back; no reason to withhold affection or to be content with those furtive glances.
How could I ever be satisfied?
So, as the sun rises on another day of knowing you better, I would ask your permission, from time to time, to send you this form of verse as a romantic gesture and to share my feelings with you.
Do you give permission, or shall I desist?
Yours, YYYY.
I am writing to request permission to express some of the feelings I have had recently, but am somewhat hesitant as the fear of the statement that poetry is not appreciated does lend a hint of a challenge. There is a warrior spirit at my heart, which is not the same as a thug or bully, that would address this challenge, perhaps, through the arts of courtly love.
Seasons have caressed the globe since I last put my hand to such a task, but I am willing to make the attempt to rekindle an historical art and old skill. The heart that speaks through my hands onto this page does not follow 13th Century rules of such 'courtly love' as I cannot be interested in keeping my feelings secret, nor does my belief include that the chivalric expression of affection be limited to those who are unable to execute upon said affection.
The perfect traditional courtly love is forever and irrevocably unrequited, only to share, at most, furtive glances across a dinner table or tournament field. My words and feelings do not come as this tradition, but from this tradition and expressed through a chivalric construct that is mine and mine alone.
I would express these words and the concepts they represent to you with the desire to know you better and a want, a yearning, to be closer to you. For me, there is no reason to hold anything back; no reason to withhold affection or to be content with those furtive glances.
How could I ever be satisfied?
So, as the sun rises on another day of knowing you better, I would ask your permission, from time to time, to send you this form of verse as a romantic gesture and to share my feelings with you.
Do you give permission, or shall I desist?
Yours, YYYY.
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