December 16, 2013

It's yours.

I don't know if you've noticed, but after a wee bit of a hiatus, my man has started writing again. And I am so proud that I just had to share it here. The post that follows below is meant to be read with his "Merry Fucking Christmas" (don't you love it already?). We didn't exactly write them together, mine was more of a response to his, so please read that one first. How many installments of long-distance amour can one write? I guess we'll have to wait and see, because there is no breaking point for a good love.


There are three clocks and two watches in my bedroom. Only one of the clocks ticks. The rest are silent.

He heard my voice before he knew what I looked like. It was against the background of a ticking clock and images from another life. He fell deeper in love.


A hundred and sixty-nine days since we last slept in the same bed.

Fifty-three days since his birthday.

Thirty-eight till mine.

It is two in the morning, the clock ticks in my bedroom somewhere across town. I am standing on the kerb, dressed in lucid untipsiness, scanning people and cabs. It’s happy drunks tonight, no bad vibes or danger for a single woman returning home in the middle of the night. Friends have left and will check up on me later. For a moment, a sense of entitlement overwhelms my privileged heart: shouldn’t someone, a loved one, be coming to pick me up?

Baby girl, love isn’t logistics. And you are not a puppy but a Rottweiler in her prime who can get her sweet ass home. Friends don’t owe you pity and the world is paying you a compliment by letting you take care of yourself.


Seven hundred and thirty-nine letters.

We are tied together by invisible strings, reaching across the ocean. When he twitches, I move. When I hurt, he feels it.

It is two in the morning and I am standing on the kerb. I feel like I am being steeped in cold, starting with my toes and moving further up. It is gradual, irrevocable and about to completely take over my body. Some people are attracted to Alaska, or Italy, or the Moon. I was born in French Polynesia lifetimes ago. I walk with grains of beach between my toes, quiet flaneuse born to be a taboo kanaka, to live in the space between, to connect the unconnectable all around and across.

The man can fucking write, I think as I rub my legs together in third position, cold and horny. His letters seduce me anew every time; his blog posts are familiar rooms, fireplaces, paintings, armchairs where I make myself at home. Sometimes he tells me the same stories all over again, and I listen. I never want to stop listening. I take a moment to close my eyes and compose my next letter.


I will always want to write to you. Always.


Four hundred and ninety-one days since we first kissed.

I tried writing about that kiss. Several times. And scratched every time. Perhaps I will get it right some day. Perhaps it is one of those things that cannot ever be written.

I will be in bed by three. He will be at choir practice, leading the lost boys home. We will chase each other across time zones. He will write to me while I sleep. I will respond before he wakes up.

My body will convulse under the covers. No longer sleeping but not fully awake either, I feel my transoceanic strings tugging. My seat of power is deep in my belly, but this I feel in my solar plexus. It is him. He is writing, calling. I curl up underneath the sheets, collecting myself around him.

I hover over the house that is my castle, where I am present only in voice now, and the regalia I left behind. I find him over the telescope, scheming and aching, and wrap myself around him.

Lock the door and pull up the drawbridge if you wish, honey.

You are King.

Load the shotgun, growl and roar.

Dance and sing your heart out, and I will sing with you.

Don’t you know that everything is allowed to those who hear the big music?

It’s yours.

It’s all yours.


Seventy-eight days together. How many more left, to wait and to live? How many uncountables in this love, so outstretched and strong? How far can we go this time around, and what will be left for the next?


I will always want to write to you. Always.



  1. I love your conception of the invisible strings that connect you. That's how I've always imagined it as well.

    1. Thanks, Phil. I've imagined it as two puppets whose movements might seem strange to people at times, but there is a deeper reason for the way they move about the world.

  2. This is so sweet. I watched it unfold...not in a creepy way, but it was just very visual for me, even the lighting, which I don't think you even described. *sigh*. Very wonderful writing and living.

    1. I don't think you read me when I used to share much creepier stuff, A. :)Those days are happily gone.

      It is wonderful living. It is sweet, gentle, deep and incredible and I wouldn't have it any other way. Yet so very tormenting at times. That itch won't go away, won't be at peace until I am, we are. Thank you.


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