"My darling, Starman.
"Today I was thinking about you and missing you so much I had to write again.
"Your eyes stir something deep within me. Something primeval and ancient. Something that feels good, like a warm sun on a frosty morning. When I think of your eyes, I think of liquid love that runs and pours over me and makes me shudder with delight and an all-consuming excitement.
"Your eyes are the window to my soul..."
John stared at the letter in his hand in disbelief. He had found it on a train on the day he left his wife. It was tucked down between the cushions of his seat with one corner poking out invitingly. He had pulled it out and started reading it from sheer boredom. The letter had gripped his heart, but he did not know why. That was a week ago. This morning he had noticed the letter sitting on his desk top and he had started to read it again.
He read the last passage again letting the words penetrate his mind. "...I think of liquid love that runs and pours over me..."
There was a power in those words. "Liquid love." He tossed the phrase around in his mind, as if mentally tasting it. He saw the image of the words as clearly as he saw the clouds in the sky when he looked up through his window. 'Eyes that poured love all over her body. A love that made her shudder. A tangible love that had substance... like the wind,' John decided.
He shivered involuntarily as he read on.
"Your eyes are the window to my soul. When I look into your eyes I see you seeing me as if there were nowhere I could ever hide away. Yet I feel no threat within your gaze. Only tenderness. They search me. They uncover me and lay me bare. Then, oh my love, then they caress me. They place your gaze with such gentleness upon all my weaknesses and upon all my strengths. They alight so softly that the kiss of a butterfly could not be more gentle, and then your gaze moves on like a breeze and I am refreshed for its being there."
In spite of himself John was moved almost to tears by those beautiful words. He placed the letter on his desk and moved to the window. As if on cue a butterfly floated down onto the window box outside on the ledge and began to drink sweet nectar from the bright yellow flowers growing there. He lifted his coffee cup and drained it in one movement before turning back to the desk and the letter laying on top.
"Then there are your lips. So full and soft. Across them travel words that cause my ears to tingle and my heart to throb with desire, or excitement. Sometimes to thrill at the sound of your wisdom, or to laugh at your humour. Sometimes even, to cry at their beauty. When they part, your lips reveal your teeth. So perfect and white. Oh, how I tremble when I think of them biting me. Nipping at my flesh so gently with just a hint of pain. Then your tongue will touch the place your teeth have been and all pain vanishes beneath that wet caress. I love your mouth. The taste of it. The sound of it. To kiss your lips is to drink the wine of God."
'To kiss your lips is to drink the wine of God.' C'mon! Is this woman for real?
John threw the letter down in disgust.
'No one talks like that,' he thought. 'No one actually speaks words like that anymore. This is the millennium. The days when people said things like that are long gone!'
John could not explain why he was angry. He stalked the room picking things up and putting them down again. He switched on the TV and then turned it off before the picture even formed on the tube. He bit and chewed at his nails, anxiously. He finally poured another coffee and sat down to try and think.
He failed.
The letter was touching something deep inside of him. It was as if it were reaching down into some dark and long forgotten room. A place where softness and beauty hid waiting for the day it could be freed. Yet it was as if he struggled to hold on to the darkness within himself.
John stood up. He could not explain his restlessness. He just had to keep moving. He had to avoid being still. He lit a cigarette and moved back to the window. The butterfly was gone and for some strange reason that made him feel better. He decided to shower.
The hot water hit him hard and he leaned back against the shower wall and let it pour over his skin. He felt it running down his chest and thighs. John loved to shower. He loved to feel the water on his skin.
"Liquid love."
The thought annoyed him. He slammed a fist into the wall and winced as the pain ran from his knuckles to his shoulder. "Dammit!" he shouted.
He finished the shower quickly, as if all the pleasure in it had gone. As he dressed he decided to go out. He had to walk. To get away from his flat for a while. On his way out of the door, and without thinking, he lifted the letter and folded it neatly before slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Well my dear frdz the end is not here check my further posts to the full story
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