Okay, so it's a weird sort of writing. . .

[kiya]

What I have an urge to write is a love letter, actually. Rather like Dawn, I'm not sure I'm up to facing the seamstress in the WIP.

It's strange to have the urge to write to someone, and no feeling that I have anything to say. I don't, really; I feel all-said, but I still want to say something.

So I say it here, because I know he'll read it, in part, and because writing here is a sort of talking to myself, and I can say all the things I've said before in the urge to gather them up and fan them out and discard them as things . . . that I've said.

And because sometimes the things that want saying . . . or would want saying if they weren't all said out . . . need to be said somewhere where people can see them. Maybe putting them here is me doing something to rebel against the feeling invisible, unmade, and displaced: see, here it is, out where anyone can see it! I name it, I make it real!

I could say again that I feel sorry, that I am sorry, for all the stressfulness I dump when the family is out there, for feeling displaced and insecure and generally wigged out. I'm not sure what purpose that would serve, for I have apologized, and been forgiven, and still don't know how to forgive myself. Less said about that the better, I suppose.

I could say that I dreamed of him last night, as I rather suspected I would after some other stuff I wrote, and that there were certainly aspects of that in the dreaming, but then it went off in an utterly weird direction. And anyway, I've forgotten, and I didn't write it down, because I still haven't remembered to put my dream journal by the bed. (The excuse these days would be that I don't have a table on my side of the bed to put it on. And that I've got a memory like one of those things you drain rice in.) So there really isn't any point.

I could say that I remember the way the sun shone off his hair one day on the beach nearly two years ago now, bringing out the colour the way artificial light never does. I could say I remember the warmth and above all the security that came that day I got off the plane to meet him and he held me until I stopped being afraid of first meetings and what they might bring. I could speak of memories of curling up against his back, feeling the breadth of his shoulders against mine, the simple security of that going to sleep in each other's company. Or spending a day reading, just in the same room, because there was time and space to just be, without the desperation of constrained time.

I can remember the first time I saw his name, which is strange, because I so rarely remember names; I so rarely am able to associate names with things written and things said. I remember he wrote to me, and we wrote to each other on and off over time, and I remember falling in love and not saying I had because I knew he was getting married in a few months. I remember being completely floored by the request for advice that made me actually say; I remember the awkwardness of the first time we spoke, and my fury at the fact that the stupid phone we had ran on batteries, and they died just as we had stopped being awkward. And then we kicked open a talk session and talked for a long time afterwards, with the fluidity of communication in text without the awkwardness of the spoken word. The battery died for the second phone call too; after that I bought a goddamn phone with a cord. These days when we talk it's often on this mobile I got, because the long distance is cheaper that way, and it's a strange illusion -- I have a headset for the thing because I find them awkward to hold -- that my hands are free, and I hear him, and somehow he ought to be there to touch, if I only look hard enough. If the earbug didn't tickle, it would seem like sufficiently advanced technology. . . except for the distance it takes to touch.

I could talk about dreams and wishes and hopes for the future, but there's enough shakiness and awkwardness there that I don't think I will. Nor will I talk about the dream that's part and parcel of that, though I think on it sometimes.

I could say, and I think this is something that I had not said at all, that a little superstitious corner of my head calls this recent trip we took to Canada the first trip I've taken with a partner other than Kevin; travel to see a partner I had done, but travel-with, no. Somehow this seems Significant in some way. (I've also travelled with both Jerrod and erispope. No superstition for secondaries, I guess.)

I could speak of how much I love to see him write, the casual things he puts on usenet and the things he writes to me; I could speak of the joy of flirting back and forth in the subtexts of things that we write, and my memory of the post which provoked me to say, "He just wrote me a love letter on usenet."

I could speak of getting a small handwritten note handed to me by Kevin, that just said that he loves me, and how that made me go all quiet and wobbly for a little while, before I put it over in my office in the same pile of stuff that contains the box that I put letters in.

I could talk about how he lights up when explaining something complicated, with enthusiastic gestures and just a luminosity that is a glory to see. I could talk about the crystalline beauty I see when he dances with his wife.

I could say, again, that I love him and that I miss him.

I could even mention that a friend of mine commented a bit out of the blue the other day that he's cute.


All sorts of things I could say, if I were writing a love letter.

I go to bed and snuggle my husband now, I think. He isn't feeling well, the poor fellow.

Comments

*happy fuzzy*

[suzanne.livejournal.com]

*hugs* So beautiful. I have it on best authority that he is feeling very warm and fuzzed.