January Love Letter: yes, my darling, it is you
“What you think of as plain, as unattractive, as perhaps outdated or forgotten, I remember, and I love.” - Olivia Nicole McLean (from “January Love Letter”)
Today is a tired day—a dreary, rainy, stay-in-the-hot-shower sort of day. Not like last week; last Saturday—in fact—when I woke up feeling incredibly well and immensely happy. I had no idea why; everything was beautiful and I felt as if there was not a more perfect day that could be wished for. I used my (seemingly) infinite energy to feed roses, till the compost, clean, organize and make what was the best cup of coffee to date (in my opinion). I felt in love and I did not know why—or even how it was that it struck me so hard. No, no one was there to be in love with—except perhaps the sweet solitude, or perhaps it was thinking of that someone no one knows you’re truly writing to. Even when I get down-hearted with the “Januaries”, I can still smile inside with my secret affection bound in my heart.
January Love Letter
Prose-poetry written by Olivia Nicole McLean
Yes, my darling, it is you. And only you. No one could be prouder, or more enthralled with how divinely you are becoming more of who you are. What you think of as plain, as unattractive, as perhaps outdated or forgotten, I remember, and I love. I study with the greatest of intent wondering, hoping that perhaps, I will lean against your breast—the one that you love, your faithful lover and disciple of your journey. Your Judas, who will dip bread in the wine with you—the cup of the blood of our trespass, the great sin of humanity—our love. In front of all of the saints, I will dare to embrace he betrayal of man, and the communion of our love. I leave the table to betray this wretched society by offering you a midnight kiss. Do not ask me to watch and pray; your love for me—what if it does not go away? All others may sleep while you mourn. But I will lie still and awake, until the mob bears us away to our fate. And while I wait, I gaze at the sliver moonlight on your skin and in your hair—I smell the bruised roses on your chest and the lavender oil poured over your long, slender neck. I see the dew on your bronze skin and glistening on your lips as you rest; having removed the burden of their hatred from your weary soul. At last, we cross a broadened horizon that is able to carry our souls beyond the poisoned waters were we were forced to bathe, and away from the sulfurous air that stiffened our lungs. I now live to see your fawn eyes open to the daylight bloom.
Yours dearly,
Olivia M.
Copyright © 2022 Olivia Nicole McLean. All rights reserved.