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Writing Blog 1

If We Are To Love, Let's Love Like This

Roderick Campbell

by Janne Robinson

I’m lying in bed and it’s pouring rain.

Not the rain that prances lightly and gently, shy and unsure to fall.

But the kind that falls confidently, heavily it swallows the forest, the city, the sky.

All is quiet, hazy, green.

The kind of rain that let’s you lie in bed tangled in the inside sheet and hit snooze for another five minutes.

If you were laying beside me I would curl my toes with your toes in a little hug, pull you close and shut my eyes next to your beating heart for a little while.

It’s the kind of rain that brings life to the earth.

I hear her sighing as she drinks it greedily and then in slow sips, as she is almost full.

I imagine the birds and forest creatures are hiding below leaves and tree canopies, licking their fur and watching the mist roll in.

It’s the kind of rain that saturates and revives the soul, picking her up to dance gently and slowly as the tink tinkand drip drip falls.

Where did the world go?

I wish it was your toes curled beside mine, and we could yell down to the bears gruffling in the woods to make us coffee in bed.

Drink it in my all white sheets, like the hotels with the fancy robes—except we have no fancy robes, just our naked skin.

Don’t worry, though—the bears and I think you look fancy naked.

Maybe I would reach for Ginsberg, Kerouac, maybe Bukowski, if your skin is as thick as mine—and if it isn’t, I’ll read it to you anyway.

For sometimes in love we must know what the ones we love, love.

Not because we give a damn about it—but because we give a damn about them.

And I would run my fingers through your curly locks as I read, and you may ask for a better reading voice and I will tell you I don’t have one.

And then I will continue with reading, because reading has not died.

“Do you want to have children?” I will ask.

This is a casual question, it is not a deal-breaker. I don’t know if I truly desire children, yet.

And you will look up at me, startled but not, and tell me whatever’s in your heart.

And then we will carry on, and I will read you maybe this:

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

~ Kahlil Gibran

And then your brain will run away to show me what it has sparked, things you have created, things you aspire to create.

You will show me the world through your heart and say, “Look, look—at this and this and this.”

And beneath it all you are asking if I love you.

It’s not about the things—it’s about acceptance, acknowledgment.

And I will smile, because I see you—and although it is too soon to say, “I love you’s” and although it really is too soon to talk about tooth brush holders, let alone children—I want all those things.

After you have shown me all the things you’ve done and loved and I have sat and “oohh and aaahd”, we will do less talking.

Less talking and more kissing, more limbs and sweat—those things.

For talking isn’t cheap, but there is a time when even writers tire of words.

Our bodies are paper, our kisses ink—I shall trace stories upon the lines of your hips.

Worship you with all my loving might, as the rain falls and falls and falls.

The candle dances, the coffee is cold, our bodies heat the room.

My mouth drifts upon your neck, breathes heat into your ear and pauses upon your mouth.

The words are there—there are three of them.

We feel them but do not say them, for it has been nine days and we are afraid of being fools.

What we do not know is love makes fools of us all—and whether we say it now or ten months from now, we’re all hopeless suckers.

I say it with the rest of my body as I take you again, and again, and again.

As our breathing shallows, you lie on top of me. You are really too big to lie on top of me, but you do so anyway and I let you.

We all want to feel small every once in a while.

You pick your head up prop it upon your hands, lying on my breast, my chest and say, “come with me—meet my town, my dog, my favourite coffee shops—you’ll love it there.”

The rain falls and the world looks in.