One night in heaven

by Christos Polydorou

img_20160606_191639.jpgI cannot know how people see me, if I am in fact beautiful, even if they tell me. Comfort would roll right past me, because I am not used to it. I feel blessed to be in the company of just about anyone, and if they happen to be in love with me, like everyone else, I would honestly be surprised. A few weeks ago and I fell in love I realised I had triumphed, I mean, I was with beauty itself, at least, beauty manifested and personified before my very own eyes, that it felt better than winning the lottery. I felt so honoured, so grateful, so happy, however in a grounded way, that I do not mind if this person is unable or simply does not wish to see me again. It is not about that. It is about getting what I wanted, to be seen, by beauty, up close. It was not about the empowerment of beauty. It was about my own empowerment. Because Beauty kissed me, and I breathed in, exhaled, and felt myself coming back into my body at last, as though my entire life the rest of me or the best of me or the very skittish flighty irreverent spiritual bird in me came back to roost in the nest. Once you get it back, it stays.

Finally, I would like to say that if that person who I fell in love with a couple weeks ago reads this I would just like to say, I am not sorry I came on a bit too strong. I am not sorry that I felt vulnerable with you. I am not sorry that I got to experience some real love, at least for an evening, because everything about it was so beautiful. You were so polite, so considerate, so warm, and noble, and talented, and soulful and philosophical and optimistic and sweet and intoxicating and harmonious that I felt myself spray like a flower at high noon in the warmth of a bowl pooling around within itself in your hands. Say goodbye to you? My love, I have already made you a protagonist of my novel. And if I finish this novel and if I publish it and if it becomes famous you will live forever within it. Love is immortal, so one attempts to be a literary genius for a succession of evenings and late nights and early mornings in the hopes that he, just a guy, will be able to put into words, to make into art, what one felt one night.