These words I write, these assembled letters that form complete coherent thoughts are subject to a million different interpretations, all of which are true, and all about you. You would inspire me to write, and I would write happily, producing like a sentiment factory where the workers had great benefits and were content. There was a time when all was well, and the words I wrote for you were enough, as long as you read them and felt them.
There were times when the words themselves were enough. They had to be, because they were all I had. I wrote like I was having a relationship with the words, as though the idea of love was a creature in and of itself, and it simply manifested as you the majority of the time. A passing glance, even an exchanged smile, were certainly warm and inviting, but were they love?
I feel nostalgic already for the things I wish we could do, the touches and caresses I long to share with you, upon the morning reflection. But who are you? Honestly, at times I feel that the entity of love is truly manifest in its own right, and that is what I crave, that is what I long for upon the evening sorrow. Each time I write, each time I wish or hope for love from whatever god is listening, from whatever destiny has in store, whichever fate I have tempted, whatever Clotho spins, whatever Lachesis measures, whatever Atropos cuts, whatever Moira has decided for me, what Danu will give her curadh, as yet unearned – I am not opening Pandora’s box…
I am opening Cupid’s.
It contains heartache, loneliness, longing, desire, lust, spurn, despair, time, circumstance, distance, panic, fear, jealousy, insecurity, and others, buzzing angrily in and out of my thoughts. And sitting in a corner of the box, the last to leave, is love itself, life-sized but folded, wispy and diaphanous, waiting to be held, felt, swallowed, incorporated into souls and hearts and feelings, waiting to grow and be shared like a candle’s flame that lights other candles without being diminished.
Is love a demon, possessing soul after soul to haunt me, to give me what I need in different forms – to promise it, at least? It would be nice to hold for just a short time, even if it is a succubus, dooming me to perpetual illusion, kaleidoscopic mirage, whose picture changes the more I twist it, but goes away when I close my eyes. Except it stays, the afterimage, and I cannot look away. Who am I seeing?
Is that who I am in love with? When I say ‘you’, which you? Who am I talking about? Because it can’t be more than one. Not this love, not this way. Love, manifest, never changes, except to grow or to diminish, to wax or to wane. Love is like breathing in that way, and in one more – we need both to live.