Beloved,

Laura Waldorff

I am writing to you because I have been awoken in the dead of night by the call of a bird. I wonder now if it was keeping me from wandering too far into my dream. The last image before my eyes was the path winding its dusty stones into a dark forest. And you, beside me. 

You had looked at me as if you questioned my memory, but I knew you immediately, standing there at the lake, hungry water lapping at your feet. Behind you, two gray slates, a sun hidden in the sky that still seemed blinding. You used to stand with a restlessness, moving your body back and forth as if you were trying to find balance. Here, you stood still and quietly. From your face I could see a softness, the light smooth like silk bending its fingers around you. My bodyless form, though there was no need for air, gasped at the sight of you. Your body was small and beautiful. I remember loving you in the night. How desperately I would search for your lips in the dimmed light, a frenzy of ecstasy overcoming me, my fingers prickling from the tension on your skin, kissing your ear, your eyes, your nose, your lips like a flower bud. I remember holding the space between your legs in my hand.  

For a long time, you stood at the shore, examining my face—if there was one, I do not know—while I was straining against my motionlessness, my mind unable to translate the laws of mobility to the spirit world. Finally, I leapt towards you and saw you close, the eye of golden light, the fresh cheeks, the hair falling in your face, the color of dark red honey, your partly open mouth—vault of heaven—and the hint of milky teeth. In me, a song was lifted. It echoed into the vast white space around us, duet of dancing flowers.  

 Intertwined, one memory chased another, flashing fervently before my eyes. Above all, I saw you drenched in autumn light on the balcony, red wine in your glass, your face set free in laughter. He could make you laugh so beautifully, without hesitation. Now I wish he’d done it more.  

I was already afraid to wake up. In your stillness I felt aware of my dreaming, threatening to pull me back into consciousness. Just as the edges of you blurred in my vision, there was your hand, holding something small and delicate, holding yourself. A tender violet grew out of your palm. You wanted me to pick it, but I could not, I could not, and you smiled. There I took you by the hand, feeling the flower silently weeping oily tears into our grasp, staining our skin purple. And there, the path carrying its stones down the distance, as if it was a river, and maybe it was, I thought; and maybe I can carry you down this road, my girl, my girl, maybe I can hold your hand to my face and lick the length of it, devour the savory liquid; beloved, I think I could unhinge my arms from my shoulders and drape them delicately around you; I think I could sow seeds in his and my ribcage and let you pluck the purple flowers next spring; beautiful, ethereal girl, a part of me forever walks the long and snaking road, the lake calm and hiding next to us and the moon like a shell in the sky.  

Again, the bird calls from his perch over the blackened lake, an echo shivers silver within me, stirring me awake.  

Laura Waldorff frequently finds love to be at the centre of her writing. She lives in Switzerland with her partner and is studying English for her Master's degree. You can find her on Instagram at @lakemoonlo.