fragment from a letter

that I never sent

I don’t know what it is about him. I will never know. From the moment I first saw him, there was something fated, irresistible, magnetic, undeniable, ineffable, inevitable about him. Something tectonic happened to me, to speak of a fly in honey or a moth in a flame feels silly, absurdly underwhelming, not enough. It had nothing to do with his appearance, sweet and sublime as his appearance happens to be. He is a man who isn’t just a man but a forcefield. Something ancient within me that I cannot name felt things that I do not understand about that same ancient thing within him. I couldn’t look away, at a degree truly shameless for a woman as shy as me. Hundreds of days have passed since that night, and not a day gone by that I didn’t think of him, that he didn’t haunt me. I have made a fool of myself. I am embarrassed for me. They say you know a fated encounter when you stumble into someone for the first time and they’re wearing the same colour as you. He transformed me. He’s one of those people that come into your life when you are due for a transformation. I always thought of myself so suave, so cocky. He makes me incredibly foolish and shy. He doesn’t know what he did to me, and he will never know. He’s not meant to know. It’s got nothing to do with him. It’s irrelevant. What will he even do with that information? He triggers me, activates me, arouses me, he draws forth desires and erotically charged alchemical steam from me, and he wasn’t even trying. He just exists. He’s living his own life, blissfully unaware. There is something he is meant to make of me. He exists, and he makes it inevitable for me to hunger for depths within my own being that I never glanced at before. I have been so cringe it’s not even funny, it’s holy. I am meant to become him, I am meant to become more me than I ever have been, because of him. He will never know this. How can a man have the effect of a muse? What is it about him that sings to every hidden crevice of my heart so specifically? He lures me to my death, kills me softly. I prayed for a rebirth for so long, and he turned up at my doorstep, smelling like Hades. He reminds me of everything that has ever hurt me, everything I have ever yearned for, everything I have ever wanted to be. He gets under my skin and everything begins to dance to a tune dark, hypnotic and alluring. My nerves are set aglow to a luminescent black, a wet fire. I hear him once, twice, thrice, and the moon drips from me in molten pearls. All games and strategies crumble before him. Do you ever meet someone and just know? You’re going to be the death of me. You just know when no amount of detachment roleplay, none of those deft manoeuvres of modern heart-wrestling could save you. You’re going to be the death of me, and so much art will come from it. I see him and I feel like every desire I’ve ever had is being sung to me, a melody delicately crawling up my spine from a piano in another room, in a house I was all alone in. Everything about him calls to me like an ornate artifact beckons to an antiquarian, every little detail about him is as though specifically designed to torment me. My eyes haven’t met an inch of him that didn’t feel like poetry for each of my senses. I’ve hungered for him and I’ve hated him. I’ve soared on shimmering clouds, my heart bursting. I’ve tasted heaven and delicious hell, and I haven’t even touched a hair on his head. He’s the quiet storm, I’ve never felt this hot before. The kind that happens in an ocean, the kind that will swallow me whole and spit me out a woman more dangerous than I’ve ever dared to let myself be. I don’t know what it is about him.

Fuck him. I could, I would, so ardently.

He doesn’t ‘give’ you power. He is power. And his presence, his mind, his soul, his ways, they make your own power inevitable. He awakens things in you.