Dear Lover: a love letter

Write me a love letter. Write it in pen, so you commit to every word. Write it on the thickest, most deliciously tactile paper you can afford. Write it and seal it away in an envelope for my eyes only. 

Address it to me in our usual way: call me your dove, or your piglet, or your sweetheart, or simply yours. For I am, yours. 

Write about how you feel about me, right now. Do you miss me in a simple desperate human way, as Vita missed Virginia? Are you forgetful of every thing but seeing me again, as John was with Fanny? Do you sigh for me, as Emily sighed for Susan? Tell me how I occupy your thoughts and trespass in your dreams and haunt your every sense; about how I am there with you, from so far away. 

What does your love for me feel like? Does it burn like a flame, or explode like a hundred fireworks being ignited at once, or as though you are on the most terrifying roller coaster traveling at 120 mph through the air, with only a narrow strip of safety stopping your body from hurtling out of control? Perhaps it feels as though you’re safe, or at home, or like a quiet exhale. Maybe it feels simply like warmth and impulse for another person, maybe it feels simply like love. 

Tell me again how you felt when we first met. When you first saw me striding towards you, trying desperately not to trip. When you first heard my voice, my laugh; what was there, blooming inside you? Don’t try and tell me I was the most beautiful creature, because I was not, but I might have been the most luminous, the most brave, the most fun. I might have had the most interesting hair, that caught your gaze, or the most fantastic tits, that maintained it. 

Tell me, do you still feel the same? 

What parts of me are your favourite? Parts that are either on the surface or hidden, deep. Parts like my plump lips, my laughing eyes, my flushing cheeks, or my crooked nose. Parts like that soft dip of flesh between my hip and my mound. Parts like my vulnerability, my kindness, the way I get so enraged and snarl at the world and cry. Parts like my tattoos, which you like to lazily trace with your finger while we’re in the bath. Parts like my giggle, my snore, the way I sneeze. Parts like my humour, and how I make you laugh and laugh so hard you sometimes weep. 

Show me what our future looks like. Show me where you want us to go, be it Paris or two villages away to sit by the lake, holding hands. Show me what you want us to do, be it recreating our first date or the first time we did anal. Show me what you want us to be, be it everything, forever, or everything, for a day, or something, for a while. Show me who we are in your future; who you want to be and who I want me to be and how we fit together. 

Write about what you want to do to me late at night and early in the morning and mid-afternoon and then late at night twice more. Pour into your words all the desire you have for me; fill them up. Tell me how much you want to taste my nipples in your mouth, and the inside of my thigh against your lips, and my cum on the end of your tongue. Write about how much you want to be inside me; all the different parts in all my different holes. Tell me how you want to feel me over and over and over and that you will never tire of it, that feeling, my feeling. 

End it with part of a poem that speaks to you about me, about us; whether it’s Sonnet 116 with its ever-fixed marks or that nothing gold can stay. Tell me what art inspires me in you and then sign it off with not one X but three. 

Please, write me a love letter and I’ll write you one back; sealed not with a kiss, but with a promise, to always write.  

One thought on “Dear Lover: a love letter

  1. I love this. Imagine getting actual mail that continued words of love that was not a birthday card from my Mum….


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