When someone sends you a message that makes your soul swoon, all you can think is: what can I do to get more messages like this? And you’re hopeful, and you’re wishing, and you’re sad to think that something so beautiful probably can’t be sustained, because nothing this good ever happens to you.
She spoke my name and gave him a knowing look, as if to say, “so this is the one you’ve been telling me so much about.”
To the heart your profound words go and change me. Oh, change me.
It was late at night. It was still and quiet. And we were in the road outside her house. And she kissed me and said, “Are you real? You’re like a ghost. You’re too perfect. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.” And now I am a ghost.
If you wish to be kissed, the question is not whether I will kiss you, but just a matter where and when and how long for and just which one from my repertoire of kisses you might prefer.
It was cold and wet, and we’d walked across the bay from Dun Laoghaire to Sandycove and visited the James Joyce museum in the Martello tower. As we left the tower, the rain came heavier, so we went up to the main street, and there we found the refuge of a pub, and saw that it had scenes from Ulysses above the bar. I asked for whiskeys, but the barman decided to make us hot toddies with spices and hot water - I guess we looked like we needed some warmth. And I was with her. And it was the best drink I’ve ever had. And I’m crying.
I ached to be asked. Ask me to listen; ask me to praise you; ask me to lift your spirits; ask me to suggest a book, some music; ask me to reveal something; ask me to write a story or poem for you; ask me to be here, there, anywhere for you; ask me to kiss you; ask me to dress up for you; ask me to describe you; ask me to find someone better than me for you; only ask … It is yours. I can be yours.
I said, “Maybe we shouldn’t have lunch together every day. I think people are starting to talk about us.”
She said, “Maybe we should give them something to talk about.”