Winter's Sleep

Angel,

We are nearing the winter solstice and the mornings are dark and cold. We are layered in dark clothing, shrouding ourselves in coats, hats and hoods. In stations and streets while we wait for the busses, streetcars or trains that will take us into the city we stomp in our boots and try to conjure the memories of our warm beds. Though we have risen, showered and brushed – we have tidied our appearance and made ourselves presentable for the day – our minds, hearts and bodies still long to linger on soft pillows and under duvets – to turn in crisp sheets and to feel the warmth emanating from a lover. We may long to return to our beds and perhaps to feel one drawn close and to make sleepy love,  to lounge, and to pamper our bodies and souls – to take care of, and to be taken care of. Or we may simply want to return to our own dreams, to rest and be restored.

But the day calls us, even in the darkness. With devices, books and headphones we separate ourselves from our surroundings and each other. We rattle and rumble on roads and rails, the noises are harder and the lights are harsher and too bright. We draw ourselves into our own worlds in vain attempts to keep the noise and bustle of the world at bay. As downtown approaches, the press of the day breaks through and the memory of our beds is just a shadow that you cannot hold onto. We will rise from our seats and step into the world. We will push our way through the day until we can return to the warm cocoon of our bed – to return to winter’s sleep.

Just me.

 

 

 

Thinking of you...

‎
Angel,

You are my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night. You are never far from me and I carry you still.

There are nights that you come to me in my dreams that feel so real that in my waking I fight to stay asleep. I find myself in that twilight between worlds, angered and dismayed in the knowledge that the day will win.

As my feet meet the hardwood flooring and I rise from my bed I can feel the slumber and dreams fall away from my shoulders. The morning shower feels like washing away the final remnants of dreams. But they never completely fade.

While being pulled into the city on the streetcar your face still comes to me. Your hair may be up or tumbling, cheeks soft, a quiet smile and eyes turned to me with a hint of sadness. I can feel your cheek next to mine, breath in your scent‎ and feel you as I draw you into my arms.

And through the day I find that mind will turn to you and I will wonder if your thoughts ever turn to me. I imagine that you wonder if I am thinking about you. So here it is: I am thinking about you.

I will spend my days and evenings keeping busy and my mind occupied. Even then I have you very near to me. ‎You show up unexpectedly and in different forms. It may be the buzzing of my phone and my heart races in the hopes it is you who has messaged me. It may be a scent or the grinding sounds of streetcars or rain or a breeze moving the hair on my arm. I carry you with me still.

Tonight I will climb into my bed and I will be thinking about you. I will turn in white sheets and hear the rustle of your turning. I will eventually drift to sleep and hope to meet you in my dreams.

Thinking of you...

Always...

Just me.

Not in the past...

To The Lady on the Train,

Your beauty does not lay in the past.

 

It is not something found in youth. Your beauty is not something that has gone nor can ever fall from you. It is not like trying to hold sand in your hands. It does not slip through one's fingers despite how much you try to hold on.

 

Your beauty is not found just in the depth of your skin, in its wrinkles or lack of them.

 

‎Your beauty is found in the shapes of your eyes. It is underneath your skin and shines through in everything that you do. It is the light that shines from your eyes. It is in the palm of your hand and in the way you walk or the way you wake up. Your beauty is in your sigh and your laugh and in the way your voice sounds.

 

You are wondrous.

 

The Man in the Station

 

 

You Are Beautiful...

To The Lady on the Train,
 

When I look at you, the affect that you have on me is more than just a visual response... I see the curve of your eye, the round of your cheek, the line of your jaw from your ear to your chin.. I see the curls of your hair, framing your face... the arch of your eyebrow... the tones and colours of your skin.. the wondrous shape of your lips, in a hint of a smile.. 

 

The line of your graceful neck, your ears just visible... and your shoulders so perfectly contradictory in their strength and frailness... 

 

Oh, I see you and I am absolutely struck dumb by your beauty... pure and absolute beauty - but this is not what knocks me completely... it is your eyes, your gaze... it is being able to see you through those windows - into a world that I sometimes mis-read - but sometimes give you away when you most want to hide... your eyes that I fall into, every time - even when I look at a picture...

 

I fall into your gaze and I want to wander there forever. I see worlds that could not exist anywhere else.. I see paradoxes and harmonies.. I see a woman so strong that she needs nothing but her own will. I see a woman that sometimes just wants to be held and shielded from the world. I see the most joy and the deepest sorrow... I see worry and I see playfulness... here there is love and there is bitter anger... there is lightness and there is a dark flash... these and so much more are in your eyes... sometimes in turn, and miraculously sometimes existing in the very same moment...

 

A man could spend a lifetime in your eyes... his hand to your cheek... your face close... the scent of your skin and hair filling his senses... A man could spend a lifetime right here, and want for nothing else - and never come close to exploring all that there is of you... to be with you is to battle and to love, to be at ease and to be aware, to seek and to hide and to seek, to be utterly lost and to be completely found... 

 

And any man who is given this privilege by you, to be held in your gaze.. any man that finds himself there and knows what he has found is truly blessed.. but if he does not know what he has been given, is somehow blind, then he is much the poorer...

 

Oh, I know what I have found in you... and I am the luckiest man because of it... and knowing it, just takes my breath away every time I look at you
 
The Man in the Station

A moment...

Angel,

 

With the official start of Autumn the weather changed as if on queue. Suddenly, the days are shorter, colder, and rainier - the sun does not arc as high, leaving even mid-day shadow stretched before us.

 

Fall has come and in the grit of this city there are signs of the coming winter that cannot be ignored. In our early weekday morning, those of us who shuffle to meet the downtown streetcar mingled with the remaining night time underworld dwellers, we are all stopped and faces turned to the sky. All of us held frozen in a shared moment to follow the fast flight and call of low flying geese. 

 

There is something unearthly, eerie, and primal in their haunting call and we cannot help but feel the sudden urge that we must now prepare for the winter that will come. We all feel the shared stirring - our signal to hurry and to slow down. The message to take advantage of what warmth and light we have now must be used to full advantage for it will not last.. 

 

A moment we have all stopped but with their passing so passes the memory of this shared experience. As the honking fades we all turn back to our private drudgery - each to our own little worlds.

 

And I wait for the bright lights of the coming streetcar.

 

Just me.

 

A Time...

To The Lady on the Train,

I have traced the lines of you - I have followed all of the angles and curves that are your shape.

I have fallen through the constellations of the freckles on your skin, been held aloft by the tumble and fall of your curls and been drawn in my the feel of the palm of your hand on the back of my neck.

I remember the soft of your cheek on the back of my hand and my forehead pressed to the small of your back.

I remember the sound of your sigh across white sheets and the way your body tensed and relaxed at the same time - a turning toward me and a tender yet hungry kiss.

I remember wet hair, crossed legs and coffee - soft brown eyes and body lotion. I remember bending to kiss the inside of a knee, a falling back to welcome me - beackoning me - to explore you one more time.

I remember your whisper in my ear and our fingers entwined - pinned to earth and soaring.

I remember the gravity of you and the way to fill a room and the way light changes.

You are the center. You carry my heart.

The Man in the Station

P.S.

I love you more. 

A Goddess...

Angel,

You are strong and beautiful. 

You are truly a Goddess..

Just me

For you...

P.S.

To The Lady on the Train,

You are loved.

The Man in the Station

P.S. I still love you.

Even now...

Angel,

Eyes focused on your screen, furrowed brow, and a set jaw... You posess the look of a woman who is hurried and unhappy. You have too much to do and not enough time to do it...

I hate seeing you so stressed and worried about all that you have to do. I hate knowing that I too am an interruption to your focus needed so that you can get through all that you need to.

I don't know how to help. I don't think that I can.

Whatever it is that you want or need from me - just let me know.

But despite the hardened and time pressed countenance, despite the frustrations and the rush.. despite what almost feels like an anger, you are truly beautiful.

I wish that I could gather you up in my arms to hold you. I wish that I could take you away, take care of you and pamper you for a while... I wish that I could make the world fall away for a while and let you breath...

Even now when I see you, I rise and I fall...

Just me.

happy...

You should know that just thinking about you makes me happy.

I want, I feel...

To The Lady on the Train,

I cannot make you do something because I want you to do it.

I cannot make you want something because it is something that I want.

I cannot make you feel something because I feel it.

A part of me wishes that I could. A part of me wants to fight and yell and make you see how I feel and what I think. A part of me wants to show you that all we have to do is to reach out and take what can be ours. But it doesn't work that way. That part of me is so incredibly selfish...

The best that I can do is hope that you see what I see - and want it too.

But wherever we end up, however this ride goes - all of me wants for you to be absolutely happy.

The Man in the Station

Emptying...

To The Lady on the Train,

I have sprung a leak somewhere for try as hard as I try to hold on, drop by drop, you are ebbing away from me. The space that is left behind, the places in my heart, and the memories that are slipping away like a train pulling away from the station cannot be filled back up. I am like a balloon that is slowly becoming deflated. I walk around with a huge hole in the middle of everything. Time blunts feelings and fades memories and trying to hold on is like swimming with all of your clothes on. And the feeling sucks.

The Man in the Station

Always...

Tapestry...

Angel,

To each of us is attached the thread of time. As we move through our lives pulling this string behind us: as we weave in and out of all that we do or do not do, decisions that we make, the thoughts that we hold, and in the shapes of vowels and consonants that we use in the inadequate instruments of our languages to label and define our world: in all of our interactions with friends, family, lovers, strangers, and everyone that we brush up against; as we make our way through this life given to us and in this world that we shape - we impart a colour to our past. We colour our thread of time with everything that we do or do not do, and this thread is woven into the past like a great tapestry.

The threads of each and every one of us gets woven into the tapestry of time past - together, all of us - just as we are all together in this life and we are all connected. We all are a part of its making and we are all responsible for what is yet to be woven. Once the past is woven, in whatever colour gets put in stays a part of this permanent record; forever unchanged. But we can move and act and think deliberately to make our threads beautiful to look at. We can live our lives in ways that add to the beauty of the tapestry - our small threads can be the places where small flecks of colour can be seen.

I know that when I have run out of time and reached the end of my thread and I get to look back on the life that I have lived that there will be places that are not easy to look at. There will also be places and times where I have acted with brilliance. I know that examining the length of my thread that there will be times where I have held black thoughts, mistreated or hurt people, or acted less than honourably. And along my thread there will be times where I can see generosity of spirit, love, and good honest deeds. From this moment on, it is a happier thread that I want to weave; one that will when I look back on it, I can be proud. It is a choice that is given to each of us.

My thread will be woven into the tapestry alongside of everyone else - friends, family, strangers - everyone. When I look at the cloth being woven on the giant loom, what will I see? Will all of the colours melt into uniform brown or grey? Will I notice the flecks of colours throughout? Will I be able to see the ebb and flow of all of the lives that have lived and are being lived? Will the colours of all humanity be difficult to look at or will they be bright and wondrous?

I know the tapestry that I want to see. I will do my part to weave what I want.

Just me.

Entropy...

Since we have drifted there is a huge hole in the middle of my life. Vacuums do not exist for long and what rushes in to fill the void is just an ache. Time once spent in happiness is now just measured in sighs and the flashes of coffee spoons. Perhaps it is just entropy... Perhaps it is way things were meant to be...

Come what may I will love you...

Always...

...

Always...

The Wrap...

Angel,

The white terry cloth wrap that you would use after showering remains the last item of yours that gets packed away. Perhaps it is because it hangs on the back of a door that I never close - out of sight, out of mind. Perhaps it is because I want to leave some secret reminder of you - a corner where a piece of you can hang undisturbed like a memory of you that I can always hold in the corner of my mind. The wrap hangs there and it still holds your scent.  I have from time to time, during sleepless nights, or when a twisting ache takes me in the chest, swung the door so that I can bury my face into the folds of the cloth. I have let you fill me once again as I stand barefooted on the cold black and white tiles. I have let you fill me before going back to bedsheets soaked with my sweat. I have let you fill me and I cannot tell you if it a happiness or a torture - it feels like both.

This morning I thought that I might pack away your wrap. I thought that I would hide it away with your shampoos and conditionioners; with your hair dryer and curling iron; with your slippers. I thought that I would pack the wrap away and hope that I will be unpacking everything someday. After removing the wrap from it's hook I shook it so as to fluff it before folding it away. This was done over the tub to catch any dust that might fall - and there it was... a single strand of brown curl. I used to find your hair everwhere - tub, sink, floor, pillow, couch. I could sweep and 10 minutes later find more. Oh - I am not complaining! I loved finding traces of you everywhere and at the most unexpected times. I stared into the tub at this single strand of your fallen hair and I was struck.

I turned from the tub, leaving it just as it was, and returned your wrap to the hook - its rightful place. I will leave the wrap there. It waits for you.

Just me.

You...

Seeing me...

I wouldn't mind forever...

When last I held you...

Angel,


When last I held you the trees had not yet greened. Oh, there was promise on the limbs – hints of young pale green buds and thin barked lengthening of limbs...


When last I held you the earth still still held cold beneath our feet and held the scent of ice though the breezes warmed.


When last I held you the arc of the sun was still low but the days were lengthening. Though the strength of the sun grew our shadows still angled long before us under a thin blue sky. We embraced the warmth and the promise of more to come...


When last I held you we discovered excellent pizza and cold beer in a strange town... Serendipity follows our footsteps...


When last I held you we gave ourselves to each other freely...


When last I held you we opened up to be us. We were brave enough to be us...


When last I held you we were happy


The Man in the Station

Missing you...

To The Lady on the Train,

I have missed you – and maybe because I haven’t actually said so, that maybe you don’t know that I have.

But I have… and you should know it.

You should know it in your heart and in your bones. You should know it by the way the small hairs on your arms or the back of your neck will stand up unexpectedly. You should know it by the way a breeze will brush against your shoulder. You should know it by sunlight glinting in your eye so that you have to see world through your eyelashes. You should know it by the sudden piling of dark clouds and a hard sideways rain. An you should know it by the way the wet grass smells and how the sounds of birds starts just before daybreak and how their song changes through the day. You should know it by the risings and settings of the sun and moon.

But in case you don’t know it, I do miss you.

I miss the sound of your voice. I miss the random text messages that allowed me to hear your voice. I miss seeing your face and I miss the way that thump in my chest and tightness in my throat whenever I see it. I miss the wondrous startle of excitement at seeing you. I miss seeing the way you move – the crossing of arms, a leaning forward, the swing of your hips as you walk.. I miss the way that the scent of you completely fills my senses and leaves me almost dizzy. I miss the backs of your arms, your ankles, and your fingers entwined in mine. But most I miss the way your eyes change when you smile..

Now you know..

The Man in the Station

I hope that you know...

Angel,

I hope that you know that I miss you.

Just me.

Promise..

 

 

So you know...

To The Lady on the Train,

So you know...

I absoluely adore you.

From The Man in the Station

On Love..

A morning wish...

Good morning, Beautiful.

I hope that you slept well and that as the stars wheeled overhead on this moonless night that you dreamt sweet dreams. I hope that you dreamt of magic and wonders, of flight, of breathing under water, of standing on stars, of holding the moon in the palm of your hand.. I hope that you dreamt of the things that can only happen in our dreams… of standing on the back of a whale as it carried you to new lands waiting for you…

I hope that you dreamt of those who love you, of lost friends found anew, of smiling family, of children playing.. I hope that you dreamt of laughter in schoolyards, of rain storms and thunder that rattles in your chest.. I hope that you dreamt of walking in a quiet deep forest, of hearing the whispering trees and dappled light… I hope that you dreamt the world you want to see…

I hope that as you woke and the dreams swirled, as you were held in that magical place between sleep and awake, that a smile rested upon your lips. I hope that as you lay in your bed letting the world seep in that the dreams stay with you a while. I hope as you rose from your bed, white limbs, freckled back and riotous hair, that you felt rested and strong. I hope that as your eyes turned toward the day you saw it laid out before you full of hope and wonder.. I hope that if a thought turned to me that it made you smile and you knew that I was thinking of you..

Me.

Good morning...

Good morning, Beautiful.

I hope that you slept well and that as you rested that you were able to lay down any worries, concerns and cares for a while. I hope that your mind was at ease and that you dreamt sweet dreams.

As the stars in a velvet sky turned overhead, I hope that you dreamt of yourself tall and straight and strong. I hope that you dreamt of your feet on white sand and a warm breeze – your curls spilling out like root beer over shoulders freckled in constellations. I hope that you dreamt of your brilliant almond eyes, the backs of your hands and red finger nails..

I hope that you dreamt of giant eagles circling overhead then swooping down to land before you, bowing to you as you climbed onto their backs. I hope that you dreamt that the eagles rose into the air with their powerful wings carrying you on their backs. I hope you dreamt of  talons and a sharp beak and yellow beaded eye and felt the rush of the wind as the world fell away below you. I hope you dreamt of the loud piercing cry and the echo from the canyons. I hope that you soared over plains and rivers and mountains. I hope that you felt your heart beat and the blood in your veins and a wild thrilling calm of a fierce spirit within.

I hope that you dreamt that she obeyed your every command without voice, flying to wherever you desired, diving at breakneck speed and gently gliding on warm breezes. I hope that in your dreams you shouted out to the world a war cry of triumph and your voice rang for miles. And I hope that when it was time to return you felt safe in the ruffled feathers and the beating wings as she landed back on the beach. I hope that in your dreams as she flew back into the air, circled once and called out before vanishing over the horizon, that you knew that you could call her back.

I hope that you dreamt of blue skies and swift moving white clouds – waves rolling up to the beach and the rhythmic sigh of the ocean breathing. I hope that you dreamt of warmth and light and in the remaining day, the promise of happy ease. I hope that you dreamt of you in a place of sun-kissed skin and sand and water and the company of those who love you best.

In your dream, I hope that you smiled such that even the sun could not compare.

Just me.

 

 

A few brief moments...

To The Lady on the Train,

It was only for a few brief moments that I could see you... You were busy and distracted... At your desk, hair pulled back, fingers barely leaving the keyboard. A hint of frustration in your face and voice contrasted with your response that your day was going okay...

Sometimes you look so small, so drawn into yourself... You are steeled against everything that is going on, hard as rock and pushing through... You are one of the toughest and strongest people I know - you are a wonder, no doubt.

I will confess that a part of me wanted to scoop you up, have you put your arms around me and to let me hold you for a while - not out of pity or because you are not strong - but support. I wanted to help - to take some burden - or to take care of you in some way - to feel you relax against me, if even for a moment... But that would be the last thing that you would want - you need to get through things on your own.

It was only a few brief moments and you were steel and beautiful... Dark eyes, rounded and steady -straight backed and tense... A river that has a calm glass surface but once you step in, you realize how deep and strong the current is... Strong enough to carve it's way into mountains and through rock - always pushing forward - unstoppable.

I could let myself be swept down that river - winding through valleys, past canyons - through wild and fast rapids - through lazy slow sections - winding past new and different landscapes - never knowing excatly where I am going, but always somewhere new and exciting. I would followe her course through any terrain, through any weather, to whatever destination she might lead.... To explore the river is the destination.

From The Man in the Station

A quick kiss...

Angel,

I told you that I would want to write to you about how I feel and the you that I see whenever I look at you - whenever I get to spend a bit of time with you. I could write about the precious times where we are locked away from the world and nothing exists but us and the moment that we are in... I could write about how those moments are timeless and yet so ephemeral - how those moments have such gravity that time is changed - lasting forever and over too soon...

I could write about those times when we are among other people - sitting in your office, walking in the underground, sitting in food court or sitting in the station waiting for a train.  I could tell you about those times and the comfort, ease and joy I feel with your company and friendship. I could also tell you about the internal wrestling that I endure with wanting to be able to hold your hand, or reach out to pull you close... the desire to be able to feel you stand close to me uninhibited...

I could tell you about those times when we are at party... those times when you have done your hair and dressed up.. those times when you are having fun, feeling flirty, a smile radiates lighting up the room, and your eyes shining.  I could tell you how your beauty is an irresistible and the way you move can make a man's blood rush and his knees weak.

I could tell you about all of those moments and many many more...

I want to tell you about a moment that lasted no more than a couple of seconds... We had walked to the bus station - we simply talked along the way about the usual things that take up one's day and thoughts. We hadn't seen or spoken much in the last couple of days because of.. well, life - and this short walk certainly wasn't enough time to reconnect and to find our ground.. and time is never on our side and a rush is always the wall we find ourselves against.. The bus was already waiting.

We kissed as we left each other - a quick peck that one could share with family and friends - common and innocent... But for me, in that small moment of less than a second, I took in as much of you as I could... I felt the warmth of your lips and the softness of your cheek.. In that moment I felt the spark of a reconnect and a memory of our kiss.. I could imagine being able to put my arms around you to hold you close and to kiss you the way that I long to.. In that brief kiss, I could already feel the beginnings of the tumble - the falling into empty space that holds only us... In the briefest of kisses, there can me a magical power that will change a simple good-bye into a memory of what was, a reminder of what is, and a promise of what is yet to come... I wanted to hold your hand as we walked. I wanted to hold you close if even for a moment. In that kiss, I was able to feel a hint of those things...

You are beautiful and you poses an incredible magic... you change time and space without knowing that you can... and in a kiss, you can make a world vanish.

Just me.

One morning...

The first morning light begins to make the room almost imperceptibly brighter. Songs of birds have drifted into our dreams and the edge of our conciseness for the past hour. We have woven their mating trills and calls into our dreams, scarcely able to tell dreams from life. Through closed eyelids, the sounds of our room and beyond, and the soft breeze from the window I know that dawn is coming though it is still dark.

You are still deep in sleep, limbs flung and back curled towards me. You hair is a wild tumble - your breath slow and deep. I am afraid to move. I am torn between keeping absolutely still, getting up, and touching you. I ache to feel you yet do not want to disturb your beautiful sleep.

These last few days have been a dream. This cottage has seen us talk and play and fight and love. It has cocooned us from wild storms when lightning danced across the lake and thunder shook windows and reverberated in our chests. We ran out into the rain feeling the heavy drops pelt our skin. We yelled into the sky - defying nature and laughing until tears streamed down our faces. We warmed our bones in front of a fire and drank wine until we finally fell asleep on the floor, exhausted, wrapped in blankets

We have made love in every room. We have made love in the meadows and in the woods. We skinny dipped underneath a cup of a slivered moon that spilled out a million stars across a big sky - the milky way a ribbon and a shooting star that now carries my truest wish.

In the black silk of water you wrapped your arms and your legs around me as we turned slowly like a dance. We kissed our kiss and held onto each other for a long time. After making love in the lake under the moon and stars to held me so tight and buried your face in my neck. Without seeing them, I knew the shape of your eyes.. I could feel your warmth and the beat of your heart.

We walked hand in hand and in silence back up to the glow and warmth of the cottage afterwards. We spoke little the rest of the night but we were always touching... elbows as we made dinner, feet under the table... we didn't want to break contact. sometimes a touch can say what a word never can.

I am now awake and thinking of this week and the room brightens further. Your breath changes and you change position and stretch... it is the stretch that makes my decision.

I place a kiss soft as air on the back of your neck... and feel you arch..

Our Bed...

Our bed holds the memory of you. The pillows that cradled your tumble of brown curls spilling out like root beer holds a gentle dent still. Tea coloured sheets on your side of the bed are rumpled in the shapes of your limbs. 

 The scent of you is steeped into the mattress. The oil slowly pressed onto your skin now sponged as you turned beneath me. The weight of our two bodies as you opened yourself up to me pressed our lovemaking into the bed  

This bed knows our sighs and moans. This bed knows our whispers and our cries. This bed knows our tears and it knows our laughter. This bed knows us tender and slow and it knows us desperately  shaking and clawing. ‎This bed knows the very best of us and had sheltered us from our worst.   

But in this early morning our bed remembers you and won't let me forget. I will lay here and remember your long white limbs, the soft round of your bum, the strength of your shoulders, I will remember the feel of your breasts and the arch of your back as my kisses traced below your navel.   I will remember your breath on my neck and tumbling into your eyes. 

Our bed holds your memory in fading scent. And it awaits your return. 

 

Truth..

Angel,

You are way out of my league. Indeed, you are beyond the league of most mortal men. So I know how lucky I am that you ever turned your eyes in my direction.

I still sometimes have a hard time believing it.

Just me

Those who are near me..

Those who are near me do not know that you are nearer to me than they are.

Those who speak to me do not know that my heart is full with your unspoken words.

Those who crowd in my path do not know that I am walking alone with you.

Those who love me do not know that their love brings you to my heart.


- Rabindranath Tagore

With me...

Angel,

I carry you with me. You have curled yourself around my heart.

There are times when you stand close to me and I can feel the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise - an electric shiver felt through all of me.

There are times when you have your head bowed, a graceful arc of neck - white arms and dark eyes - an inward smile on your lips... and the beauty of you fills me up...

The softness in the pad of your palm and your long slender but strong fingers - and the warmth imparted in your touch... I can close my eyes and still feel the caress on my back as we lay in a blind filtered room.

There are times that the crystal gaze of your eyes could shatter my heart - or have me tumble for eternity. Soft cheeked, angled chin, and tumbled hair - your eyes - and all of a sudden the rest of the wold falls away to nothing.

There are times when I lay in my bed and all I see is your face as I drift.. and the sound of your name in my ear - and I smile... And when I wake, you are my very first thought.

You swim in my veins...

Just me.

Good Morning...

Good morning, Beautiful.

I hope that you slept well and that as you rested that you were able to lay down any worries, concerns and cares for a while. I hope that your mind was at ease and that you dreamt sweet dreams.

As the stars in a velvet sky turned overhead, I hope that you dreamt of yourself tall and straight and strong. I hope that you dreamt of your feet on white sand and a warm breeze – your curls spilling out like root beer over shoulders freckled in constellations. I hope that you dreamt of your brilliant almond eyes, the backs of your hands and red finger nails..

I hope that you dreamt of blue skies and swift moving white clouds – waves rolling up to the beach and the rhythmic sigh of the ocean breathing. I hope that you dreamt of warmth and light and the promise happy ease. I hope that you dreamt of you in a place of sun-kissed skin and sand and water and the company of those who love you best.

In your dream, I hope that you smiled such that even the sun could not compare.

Just me.

 

Happy Valentine's Day

 

 

Angel,

Happy Valentine's Day.

You have my heart - always.

Just me.

Those Days...

To The Lady on the Train,

It is on those days that it seems that the whole city is holding its breath, waiting for the storm to come that we have been warned about...

It is on those days that when the winds and cold and rains and snow and hail and whatever other torment awaits us, finally arrives....

It is on those days that the breeze is warm and calm, and the sun squints our eyes to its beauty...

It is on those days where the city is stifled in heat and humidity and air seems like a rare commodity...

It is on those days where the sun rises early, or late...

It is on those days that are rainy or dry..

It is on those days that are cloudy or clear, windy or still, warm or frigid..

It is on those days that I would rather be curled up with you.

From The Man in the Station

Victoria Park and Eglinton...

Angel,

This city sits on a fat lip of fertile earth scraped off the ancient shield rock to the north by the last ice age. The receding glaciers leaving behind water, earth and a changed landscape. Our Great Lakes formed by time and forces the scale or which we cannot fathom except in dreams now anchor life to its shores. 

This place is ancient but this city is young. It is stone, steel, and glass rising up among the rolling hills and up from the valleys. We have buried hundreds of small tributaries that used to lead down to the lake and paved them over so that only a careful eye can tell where they once ran. We have dig deep into the soft layers of earth to find foundations for the skyscrapers that mold the skyline. All the displaced earth made into a protective spit. The spit protects the harbour from winter storms and provides sanctuary for migrating birds having to cross the expanse of the lake. We have formed this place as much as it forms us. We are the new glaciers - moving land and water - only we work much faster.  

‎In the heart of the city we have blotted the sun and shrunk the sky to blue strips between buildings. It isn’t until you leave downtown and get up onto the shoulders of the land, in the suburbs that ring the city, where you can see big sky. 

‎To the northeast, on a bald head of a street corner the sky is a grand expanse. Here,  the world feels tall and wide. Distance has turned downtown into grey - blue Legoscape sitting in a hollow of land between the last two rivers, the Humber and the Don.  You can see a horizon and imagine what may lie beyond it. Moving clouds, rippled like the roof of a dogs mouth, scatter the sun's dying rays as it slips below the western edge of sight. 

Streetlights come on as the wind kicks up cold again. There will be an exodus of cars and trains as people make their way home from work. And the city sighs it's way into a winter night. 

Just me.

March morning...

Angel,

It is early March and it has been a record breaking winter of ice, snow and freezing temperatures. People are becoming as bitter as the north wind that has rarely left us since November. In the dark of the early morning we warm our cars or huddle around bus and streetcar stops - we trudge through the fresh fallen snow - bundled and bowed, stomping our feet for warmth. 

It snows large soft flakes that float straight down on this windless morning. The city is once again under a thin blanket of white.  It quiets sounds - even muffling the grind of the steel streetcar wheels. ‎ People whisper in hushed tones. Something hangs in the air that we do not wish to disturb.

On this city street corner, under the glow of the lights , our world is transferred into a snow globe. Even this late in the winter and weary of the cold, the snow brings wonder and magic. The few of us in the dark and cold turn our faces to the sky and marvel. It is beautiful. We are held by the marvel of it. 

It feels like the first snow and all the joy that brings.... perhaps because this may be the last snow... perhaps the magic is in the turning of the seasons - and we sense it in our bones. 

Just me.

You...

Angel,

There is much that I want to tell you… to be able to say the right words, in the right way, and at the right time… I wish that I could express myself properly so that you would know exactly how I feel about you. Though my words may be woefully inadequate, I will make the attempt and trust that you will fill in some of the gaps…

I know that you are a bit frightened about today. But I also know that you are better than you give yourself credit for.

I have seen in you strength and determination when you least felt that you had it.
I have seen in you flashes of brilliance and discovery when you weren’t looking for it.
I have seen in you the uncanny ability to turn a disappointment or hurt into something that helped you grow.
I have seen in you the turning from frailty to steel and fire in less than the blink of an eye.

As much as I wish that I could help, ironically, I think it would be a detriment to you.

I have said before, you are a contradiction and a wonderment. I have absolute faith that you will do great today.

You are magic.

Beside you…

Always…

Just me.

Summer vacation...

Angel,

 

We have driven up Highway 6 through Guelph, Mount Forest, and Owen Sound. Making our way north up the Bruce Peninsula along the ancient and broken spine of this continent that is the Niagara Escarpment. This land is home to some of oldest living trees, scraggled and clinging to the edges of vertical rock cliffs – not much to look at, but hard and tough. We are pushing our way up along a jut of land between Georgian Bay to our right and the mighty Lake Huron to our left – trees, rocks, and road – under a brilliant blue sky whisped with high white clouds.. Through clearings we glimpse the sun splintered like diamonds on deep cold lakes and shallow warm ponds. The hum of the wheels, the rush of wind, and the soft of your hand in mine as we reach the end of this land, sloping toward the pier and ferry docks. 

Here, we will queue up and wait to board the ferry Chi-Cheemaun that will take us on the two hour crossing to South Baymouth on the ancient Manitoulin Island – simply known as ‘The Island’. We will cross the hundred miles of this mystical and sacred land of farms and lakes and towns and wild country. We will travel up and down the rolling hills and across the flats – past houses and reserves – stopping at a roadside station for food, fuel and to stretch our legs in the hot mid-afternoon. By the early evening we will reach Meldrum Bay where we will check into our room for the night. We will eat our dinner on the long shellacked pine tables – simple but delicious food followed by strong coffee in heavy mugs..

We will walk down to the lighthouse and sit on what feels like the edge of the world to watch the sun go down over the North Channel. Streaks of red and purple as the fat orange sun slips below the horizon. As the crickets start to sing and dew settles on the grass, we will make our way slowly up the road back to the Inn as a million million stars reveal themselves against black velvet sky.

We will make our way up to our room, the wooden stairs of the old inn creaking beneath our feet. The comforting smell of sawdust,  wood smoke, and fresh linens greet us as we enter our room. Weary from the long travel of the day and fresh air, yet excited for the start of our adventure. We will wrap ourselves up under the heavy quilt and in each other. We will make slow passionate love and sleep in the high wrought iron bed, thick mattressed and squeaking slightly. We will refresh our bodies and nourish each other through the night – waking to a cool bright day that will warm as the sun rises..

We will dress and head downstairs to breakfast and our first coffee..  We will then ready ourselves for the next part our journey.. Today we will reach our destination..