Plagiarized Love Letter

In which I borrow from those more masterfully passionate, to test the notion that words can ever capture the way one feels, as well as whether people ever live up to the drama that they describe. I am in awe of the overwhelming emotion in the letters I read, yet am deeply suspicious of their performance. For the penning of my Frankenstein missive I borrowed the impractical yet fabulous costume of despondent, tremendous love. It was luxurious and heavy.


Dear Heart,

Tonight I love you on a spring evening with the window open. The thought of you now makes me a little unbearably happy. I am foolish about you, I admit. I cannot bring together two ideas that you do not interpose yourself between. My love alters the things around me and the things around me alter my love. I sing out our magic – love.

I must see you soon. London is a desert without your dainty feet. You are the divine thing I want – the thing of grace and genius. I miss you like a home and I long for our sunlight contact. I want to put my arms around you. My body aches to hold yours close. You are all the combination of numbers. Life. I am reduced to a thing that wants you.

I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors, because there are so many, in my confusion, the tangible form of my great love. And how I want to photograph you – the hands, the mouth and eyes, and the throat. I feel that my only hope of again doing beautiful work in art is being with you.

In spite of myself, my imagination carries me to you. I grasp you, I kiss you, I caress you, a thousand of the most amorous caresses take possession of me. You are the mirror of the night, the violent flash of lightening, the dampness of the earth. I wonder if your body wants mine the way mine wants yours – the kisses – the hotness – the wetness – all melting together – the being held so tight that it hurts – the strangle and the struggle. I am full of sensations; my hands are sunk in oranges, and my body feels surrounded by your arms.

London is a desert without your dainty feet

Besides the strength and permanence and all enduring feeling which I have for you, everything else is shifting sand. All my joy is to feel life spring from your flower-fountain that mine keeps to fill all the paths of my nerves which are yours. All this love which you have poured out to me is very bread and wine to my direct need. Always, always I am coming back to you.

Most clearly I remember your eyes, with a kind of teasing smile in them, and the feeling of that soft spot just north-east of the corner of your mouth against my lips. It is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your lips bring blessings my beloved. And yet nothing compares to your hands, nor to your eyes.

My body is filled with you for days and days. I never feel you too far away to whisper to, and your dear hair is always just slipping through my fingers. The hollow of your arm is my shelter. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. You give me a faith I never thought to win in the lastingness of passion. I come to you full of future.

You are so dear, so wonderful. I think of you all day long, and miss your grace, your boyish beauty, the bright sword-play of your wit, the delicate dance of your genius, so surprising always in its sudden swallow-flights towards north and south, towards sun and moon – and, above all, yourself. When I think of you I think of real things, and become honest. It’s not love, or tenderness, or affection, it’s life itself, my life, that I found when I saw it in your hands, in your mouth and in your breasts. You have devoured everything. I feel foolish and happy as soon as I let myself think of you.

I should awfully like to go away with you somewhere where it is hot and colored. We will dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads. Until then, I must go back and recapture that afternoon in Vienna when your kisses were rained down on my face, and that memory ends always in peace, beloved. Only one mountain can know the core of another mountain. I kiss your eyes, I kiss your hair.

I have a delicious sense of you in my heart. I hope you are brilliant and happy. Now, the moon is full and the lake lies still and lovely – this place is like Heaven – and I am in love with life. I go to sleep thinking of you. Ah I love you, love you better than ever you know. But I have no words for how I love you. Goodnight, darling.

Devotedly yours,



Inspiration: Brain Pickings / Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West / Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera / Jean-Paul Sarte and Simone de Beauvoir / Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas / Fannie Benjamin Johnston and Mattie Edwards Hewitt / Margaret Mead and Ruth Benedict / Edna St. Vincent Millay and Edith Wynn Matthison / Eleanor Roosevelt and Lorena Hickock / Ranier Maria Rilke and Lou Andreas-Salomé / Georgia O’Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz / Honoré de Balzac and Countess Ewelina Haska / Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky.


One response to “Plagiarized Love Letter

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.