To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance. Oscar Wilde
Hello my love, you, me, us,
I have been thinking about our time together, this feels like the right time to write these words down, so I can remember them. When I spend time with you it feels like something, or maybe it was nothing, I am longing for you, my love. I have been meaning to write you a letter for some time now and share my loving words with you. Today, I found the right words for those feelings, for the longing, but when I had something to write, it turned out nothing at all. It appears that writing about nothing seems to have stuck in my head, annoyingly, this thought has actually meant something to me, and how I feel about me, you, us.
The difficulty is that every time I find a reason, it spirals into something, intense. I am in love with you because you believe my thoughts are worth saving, worth believing, worth writing, worth protecting and the words that are lingering beneath the layers underneath your darkness, my darkness, our darkness. These are the words I want hear, I want hold and protect. The layers I only let you see and unsee, it unsettles me, when I am honest with you about what's within me.
I know, this may feel a little confusing, to some, but to you my love, these words are familiar. You are always full of answers that don’t need answering but instead create new thoughts and questions that need more questioning.
We began like any other exchange, few words here and there, aimlessly, pointing to a conclusion we generally did not need or cared about, but your presence, the words, that exchange, the notes, the check-ins, the carefully crafted lines and the endless readings that were pushing us away and pulling us in, that felt like that was the something. These felt important in some sort of way, these were built on something, or did they represent nothing, perhaps in time, as time passes through two parallel lives in this universe, perhaps this nothing will be seen as something.
Tenderness. Presence. Absence.
All of it.
I want to tell you, my love, yes, you, the baby you, the younger you, the teenager you, the adult you to travel through life, through time, and you will arrive in places, fields, lakes, oceans and dusty ground in different parts of earth, where your future self will be. Waiting in a slightly annoyingly loving way.
You will like me, not like me and completely adore me, not right away, but in time.
And yet.
Now, I am a woman, and that is me, writing to you, who loves you. Writing loving words in full openness.
Yes, you, have managed to write to me about nothing, yet sharing everything with me so intimately, in such a tender way, and I felt something, maybe it was nothing, a feeling, a wonder, a wonderful warm feeling, I am not sure. It was a beat in my chest, pounding, it was warm, sometimes it ached, today it skipped a beat, when I thought of you, being present, with me, holding me, all of me. The inner layers, underneath. Yes, you. My sweet love.
Today feels softer, kinder, warmer. I have enjoyed my pause, my quiet. Writing down my thoughts, about you, us, our somethings and nothings. Which seems so ridiculous to me.
There is freedom in loving you, in some absurd way, all of you, these words are for you, a love letter that I feel something, proof you are worth of love.
You have spent a lifetime writing, creating words that dance on a page, that you kept quiet, private and hidden. I found them, read them, kept them, inside my heart, yes all of them, because they are important to you. They are me. They are us. That part meant something to us. You have read my words too, I feel it, I see it, in all the versions of you, that meant something and you said nothing. Open up my love, I will hold you safely. I will listen.
The many versions of us embodied, you wrote to me for me, I wrote for you, for us, shared words so intimately. Yes, you, they travelled down your arm into your beautiful warm hand, through your pencil, fingertips tapping on a keyboard, spilling onto a page, creating something remarkable, beautiful, that only you can write, with your inner voice, a masterpiece, an artistic expression of your warm kind heart, always.
The words.
Not the clever ones. The tender ones. The soft and vulnerable ones. Yes, those words were particularly important, to me. They wrapped your love around my body.
They held me when I started to fall.
They hooked me in, kept me safe and scared the fuck out of me. Yes. All of me. Wrapped closely, warmly, tightly, around me, while sensations ran through me and beyond me.
Yet here we are talking about nothing, that meant something, that represents a thought, a hurt, a smile, a giggle, a word, a wonder, a moment. We shared.
It is an impressive nothing.
A highly suspicious something.
I will file this one in the archives, somewhere in the memory system, that holds all the nothings, that meant something. In such nourishing self-loving way between the versions of us that travelled through time, following different trails, meeting somewhere, and someone, who became no one, but left a handprint, a mark, somewhere that led to here.
We laughed.
We argued.
We hugged.
We cared. We… Together.
We made tea. Sweetest warm tea, together, then alone.
We created mountains out of molehills then climbed them together. We quickly parachuted down, floating in clouds, that turned into words, held our ground, that meant nothing.
I wonder.
Somehow absurdly, beautifully, that meant something to us, both of us, all of us, as we had been gathering evidence, of all the nothings, that meant something and turned them into proof to go our separate ways.
They were all proof, you left, when I arrived.
Proof you didn't want to stay, I didn’t want to go.
Proof that played in our mind like an annoying chalkboard scratching sound. It was painfully loud. I agree.
I held my affection for you in confusion, inside our love I felt pain and the playful words that danced around somewhere, in you, and in me, that was something or was it nothing to you, perhaps I misread you and me and us.
The tea turned cold, bitter, cloudy. Tipped over and spilled. Teacup shattered into pieces and so did my heart. My love.
These nothings that turned into somethings, were now disrupted. Maybe it was something that meant a great deal to someone, or no one. It holds a special place in my daydreams, thoughts that occupy me, and of course my heart that is marked with your tenderness I felt in your words, in scars are slowly forming now that you are not here, in my presence, my love.
I will remember you for all the things that didn’t mean anything, but really, they meant everything, they were something and I love me for enjoying those moments for so long.
In the most loving way. Loving me, you and us.
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