Since the autumn of 2017, I have been receiving poems in the mail from a stranger.
The poems usually seem to be photocopied pages from books. Occasionally typed out. Nothing hand-written except little notes in the margins explaining who the author is. Sometimes a small message like "sorry for the long delay, I lost myself." or one wishing me a happy birthday. Nothing ever overtly personal or romantic.
Which is also true of the poems themselves. They are not love poems. And because of that I love them. There has been a good variety of poets sent from Whitman to Shel Silverstein to Mary Oliver to several people I haven't heard of but now enjoy. Usually sweet and simple verses on nature or depression or something else regarding the human condition.
All of it strikes me as very gentle and sweet and so incredibly loving. When I have shared this with friends, they all respond with a variation of the same response: that there could not be a more perfect way to express affection for me. And it is so true. In fact, one of my biggest fears about all of this is that I will someday find out who it is that's been sending them. Which I know might be the opposite of what most people would feel in that situation, but I am not most people. I wish I was sometimes, but alas.
There is not much in the way of clues anyway. The envelopes are always post-marked from Denver and the best guess of those who have seen them think it is "feminine" hand-writing. But I am no Sherlock.
And I know that once I discover the identity of my poem sender, I will have to make a choice. I will begin to assess and obsess over what this person wants from me and whether I am able to provide it (I never feel able. Or at least haven't yet).
I mention this because I also now get letters. These are from someone I know. A redhead writer who looks like Jenny Lewis and someone that I have had a crush on for years. At first I wondered (hoped) if she was the poem sender. I don't remember why, but I scratched her off the suspect list very early. I think it was something to do with logistics. But regardless, here she is, writing me things with her name attached.
She wrote one letter and asked me to be her pen pal. On the second page of the three double sided pages of the letter, she began to describe some erotic dreams she'd been having, one of which included me but she did not give details. There was also a lot dedicated to the discussion of kink. The rest of the letter was about the squirrels outside her apartment window (she watches them from her writing desk), reincarnation, and the existence of the soul.
I don't remember what I wrote back, but I hinted at my crush on her and responded in kind with my thoughts on kink and reincarnation and the soul.
I received her response yesterday and just now read it for the first time this morning. She describes how she "got caught up in your words and and handwriting and the stiff crinkle of the paper, absorbing it all for several days. It was a great letter--an erotic one, may I say." and how it stirred her imagination and that the next time we are in the same city "with proper communication and consent with all parties impacted" that we can explore some things together.
Good God, the chills through my body as I read that.
I had planned to explore the sheer terror that I feel when I find myself desired. How much shame is triggered when I dare consider myself attractive at all, let alone sexually so.
But that can wait.
Because the mystery poems and the softly erotic letters from a married woman in an open marriage give me a freedom that seems rare for me to find in real life.
I am not paranoid or anxious or gripped with suffocation and the paralysis of not knowing how to act or what is expected of me or whether I am mis-reading what is happening and accidentally hurting feelings or whatever else usually runs through my mind.
No, these pieces of paper mailed to me with such care and intention are just love. They are just desire.
They cut through the bullshit of my trauma and insecurity and fear and make me feel really truly seen.
Not just seen but seen and still loved which feels so goddamned rare.
And I can't find words to express just how badly I need that.
For this brief moment, I am walking on air. I am walking on pillows on clouds on air.
6:02 a.m. - 2021-03-13
Recent entries:
The Defeated Loner - 2021-05-18
An Open Marriage to Solitude - 2021-05-11
Secret Admirer Unmasked - 2021-05-02
Abstract Expressionism - 2021-04-15
Soul Tornado (that sounds like a Christian book title, doesn't it?) - 2021-03-29
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
warpednormal
poetinthesky
alethia
jim515
swordfern
loveherwell
greenstar7
lust-
cindylou03
bantenhut
i-am-jack
musicman575
comebacktome
aryssa90
i-lost-sarah
newschick
hexes
stardumb
gonzoprophet
meffinmisfit
cybers1ut
movingsands
the-grey-one
dangerspouse
unowhatilike
silverluna
elusive-you
tobehis
kenny-loo
brothasistas
my-rant
is-life
godsintimate
ruby--sky
darkly-blue
creme-egg
holdensolo
reevo
similar
dooki
dagkyo
obijuan
buddyboy5
u2october
nudeplatypus
mojo1915
alwaysinhim
baby--girl
krunkjazz
gr8legs
dudemanflab
spittingame