Poetry
My lover's words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
~ Anne Hathaway by Carol Ann Duffy
How whimsical is human nature. How unreliable emotions. I first saw Ivo and was lovesick before I knew him. My body would ache when he was away from me – as intensely if only for a few minutes as for the whole of summer. I came to crave his touch, his gentle caresses, his savage kiss. But when the excitement and novelty of early love waned and I was left with the complex reality of our day-to-day relationship, even those physical pleasures could not entice me to stay. My return to him stemmed from need, not from want or volition.
Separated from him by necessity in the winter of 1995, I became once again the recipient of his passionate love letters. And oh how quickly did I fall once more into that deep well of sentiment we know as Romance. A letter becomes a means by which one can transmit the best of oneself, leaving the unadmirable to fall by the wayside. Had I considered him flawed beyond repair? I certainly could not imagine. Was it just yesterday that I criticized his dogmatic nature? I saw only a true and steadfast being, unwilling to bend with the vagaries of society. Did I once despise him as a sullen child resents the teacher? I marvelled that such an erudite man had claimed me in spite of my simplicity. Had I once found his passion for life wearing? I begged for it as the desiccated earth longs for rain.
Not one hour after his departure I was counting the seconds until his return, living on prayers and fear. And when the moment came, when I opened my eyes to find him smiling above me, the warmth of our love for one another promised to carry us through those mundane times.
For the pen of Cyrano de Bergerac is written in dead parchment for posterity but my lover's words are etched in my blood and each morning bring me to life.
