For Her Eyes Alone

 

To the care of the honour’d Lady K

I do pen this epistle to enquire whether thou art in good health. Yea, and more than this, to wish thee to be found in the keeping of the Lord Most High, who forsaketh neither the weary nor the broken in spirit. There is no might, nor puissance, in this world or without, that surpasseth the hand of God.

First and foremost, I give laud unto the Most High, that I am here present and granted the grace to inscribe this humble missive unto thee.

This is no letter of petitions, nor yet a scroll of longing, nor a cry of eternal repentance. Verily, my sole intent is to wish unto thee all that is goodly and best beneath the firmament. And mayest thou know, gentle lady, that all flesh is tempted, and days of ill-fortune do beset us — days wherein heaviness doth possess our souls, and we are sorely moved to renounce all.

Without falling into overlong digressions nor vain and idle reveries, I would confess that I was visited by a dream of thee in the night just past. In that vision, methought I gazed upon the looking-glass wherein thy likeness was cast, and beheld thee as thou wast in the springtide of thy youth.

It was not thy present self I did behold — no, not as thou art this day, a lady grown and seasoned — but as a maiden yet untempered by the burden of years. And yet, of a truth, even then the seeds were sown of the woman thou hast become: disciplined, steadfast, resolved, long-suffering, and full of quiet strength.

Nevertheless, there was that in thy tresses — long and flowing — and in the keenness of thine eyes, some fire, some glister of thine inner flame, which I dare not venture to render here in words, lest I be taken for sentimental or accused of seeking to reclaim what time hath rightfully borne away.

This dream didst rouse me at early light, and moved me to pen this plain and humble missive; for many a year had passed since last I dreamt of thee, and the vision left me full of disquiet. Upon waking, I didst kneel in prayer unto our Lord, beseeching Him with an earnest heart that He keep thee in His tender charge, for thou art worthy — aye, ever wert thou so.

The dream was cast in hues most vivid, a lively phantasm wherein thy younger semblance shone forth in cheerful mirth, discoursing sweetly with me. I felt the hum of thy speech, the soft enrapturement of nearness, yea, even the subtle fragrance that clung to thee. We spake, as once we did in those bygone days when naught could sever our kindred souls.

Think not this vision to be of base or lewd kind, filled with fleshly fire. Nay, it was replete with that which is most true, most honest, and most chaste betwixt two who once didst love with the fullness of their beings, yet were by life and lot riven asunder.

Now can I say, with no feigned tongue, that I have gleaned some small wisdom in the course of my years; I have come into the season of ripeness, and stand — by the grace of our Lord — upon the earth with both feet fixed and steadfast.

I dare not trespass upon that tender dominion of the heart which is no longer mine to enter. And yet, at last, I comprehend why thou didst will never to hear word nor whisper from me again. It is bitter truth that I am a creature perilous — cunning in charm and skilled in artful guile. Perchance the sole means thou didst find to master such a snare was by way of utter forsaking and resolute disdain.

These forces thou didst wield against me — silence and abandonment — did teach me lessons which neither sermon nor sorrow had ever wrought in me before. Yea, virtues I once knew not now do inhabit me, having been sown by thy hard but holy hand.

In all truthfulness, I would make unto thee a brief confession of my poor and wayworn affections: that after the lapse of many years, it is but now that I perceive — verily, I feel — that I love thee no longer.

Yet I still do wish thee all manner of goodness, that thy days be clad in joy and thy countenance resplendent, and that the Lord’s hand abide ever upon thee, for I do ken thou hast endured, and still endurest, a multitude of afflictions both of flesh and of soul.

What I would fain signify, and pray thee to comprehend, is that my love no longer beareth the stamp of that selfish mould it once wore — that fevered and tepid lust which sought, with vainglorious word, to win thee back. That is not the tenor of my purpose, nor do I seek such ends; of this I do solemnly assure thee.

This was the stirring that led me to rise early and commit this poor epistle to thy name: the dream that visited me, the wakened echoes of yore — those disquieted phantoms that return to haunt me with thy absence. But such hauntings hold no dominion now, for I have been drawn forth from the mire.

I was found by a servant of the Order of Melchizedek; I did partake of the cup and break bread, and therein was I made whole. And now, in spirit and in truth, I do both know and feel what true love is.

True love is a benevolence that seeketh not its own, that presseth not, nor cozeneth, nor harmeth the beloved. True love giveth place, yea, yieldeth all — even unto life itself — that the other might be preserved. In such estate stand I now.

Thou mayest, perchance, find thyself pondering why this epistle was cast in such archaic tongue. 'Tis for this cause: that it may reach thee and thee alone. I wot well there be prying eyes that linger yet upon these words, and likewise do I know such eyes to be indulgent and lewd of spirit; wherefore I trust they shall not squander their idle hours poring o’er lexicons to unearth the meaning hid herein.

I did say I would refrain from vain fancies; yet, the tide of feeling within me is so great, that I must needs render it — howbeit poorly — into thought. Lo, near fifteen years hath passed in wandering since our bond was sundered, and still, I find much cause to offer thee thanks. For thou, my lady, art a pattern of fortitude and grace; and this I speak not in flattery, nor with intent to beguile thee.

Some spirit or turn of fate didst bring thy memory to me again. Mayhap it was the treatise of Master Georg Lukács, entitled To Narrate or To Describe, wherein he draweth comparison betwixt a race of steeds in Zola's Nana, and another in Anna Karenina of Count Tolstoy. Or perchance it was my reading of Arabian Nights, that wondrous tome so filled with mirth and instruction — a text we should doubtless have shared, with many a jest and merry comment, had our friendship endured.

Aye, how I would rejoice to partake of such literary delight with thee once more. For of all the riches our fellowship did offer, this was the jewel most dear unto me.

Thou wast far more than my warm and sensual beloved. Thou wast a companion full of breath and spark, ever by my side; thou sharedst in my fervour for letters, didst bear with my unrest, and didst even suffer my youthful folly. Thou wast as the sister I never had — and after thee, I could love no other.

Yet methinks this part of the tale is already known to thee.

I could neither love nor be loved by any other — until this present hour. Lo, I now find my heart stirred anew, awakened by tender stirrings toward a maiden who walketh with me in our studies. Aye, my dear lady, I am not one to surrender lightly. Though life hath been a tempest of contradiction and trial, I did not forsake my path of learning, for therein alone do I find my calling.

In some strange way, I believe this steadfastness is but the echo of thy own resilience and discipline, taught unto me long ago, in a world now distant — when we did pace together through the colonnades and dwellings of our university days. Thou hast taught me much; but above all, this lesson endureth: that of constancy and fortitude. And for this, I do give thanks without ceasing, blessing thee with each breath beneath this sun.

As I spake afore, noble lady, I have conceived an affection for this maiden — young, fair, and wise in speech — and methinks she too may harbour some fondness toward me. Yet, as ever it is in my life, ease is not my portion. Love cometh not clad in comfort nor veiled in privilege. Nay, this fair one hath a betrothed.

And such as I am now — shaped by years and chastened by time — I cannot, I dare not, pursue her with artifice or sly attempt. I honour her bond, and thus I hold this love as a secret thing, a treasure buried deep, kept under key within my breast — the rarest trove that one might unearth.

Prudence, reverence, forbearance, and fidelity — these be not idle utterings upon my tongue. By the full grace of Our Lord, I have striven to embody such truths, not in word alone but in deed — humble deeds, too small for men to mark, yet alive and burning within the marrow of my soul, diffusing through the chambers of my heart.

I pray that thou art well. I pray thy body is nourished and thy sleep sweet; that the smile which once did ravish my gaze remaineth still upon thy visage. That thy laughter, which did once make others laugh, endureth still, despite the briars strewn across our daily path. May thy health be abundant, thy courage yet greater, thy spirit unwearied.

And know this: I do yet love thee. Not as that boy, green with want and blind in passion, but as a man who hath learned to love all men — and above all, to love the Lord. Yea, it is for this reason, for the fear of God and friendship of Christ Jesus, that I write thee now.

Be well, and may Our Lord bless thy every step, thy every breath.

Thine in eternal friendship,

Carlos Henrique Barbosa

La Instruanta Silento

 Dear K,

I do not know if these words will ever reach you, and perhaps that is for the best. Yet, here I am once more, compelled by some unseen force to write on this day, as I have every year since we parted ways. It has become a ritual, a habit that lingers despite the passing years, like the lingering scent of old books in a library—unchanged, unwavering. But unlike the past letters, this one is not a plea, nor a lament. It is, instead, a quiet confession and a final acknowledgment of what once was.

It is peculiar how the mind clings to memories, curating a museum of moments, some vivid, some blurred at the edges. I still remember you in your bright-colored All-Star sneakers, the jeans that bore the wear of time, and that Deep Purple shirt—a color between indigo and violet, a shade that perhaps only you could pull off with such casual grace. I see you as the girl who walked with effortless confidence, carrying books in your arms, speaking about words in ways I barely understood. Your passion for language, your devotion to Esperanto, the precision with which you wielded words, it all fascinated me. Se vi perdis la vojon, ne perdu la esperon; eĉ la ombroj servas al la lumo. I wonder if you still recall phrases like these, or if they have faded as I have faded from your life.

I was once both your friend and your lover, but above all, I was a fool. The jealousy, the possessiveness, the unrelenting need to anchor something that was meant to be free—these were my failings. I wounded you not with words, but with the weight of my insecurities, the chains of my own selfish love. And for that, K, I am sorry. No apology, however, can erase what was done. No amount of regret can restore what was lost.

I know you have long since turned away, that you no longer read my words, and in truth, that is a mercy. You should not have to carry the weight of my grief or my reminiscence. If I were to be honest, I ceased writing altogether, not only to you but to the world, for I have come to believe that I have no gift beyond causing harm. What talent I thought I had was nothing but an illusion, and in that illusion, I lost you.

Perhaps we have become strangers in all but memory. The boy you once knew and the woman you have become—two beings who no longer recognize each other, shaped by time and distance into something unrecognizable. And yet, despite the chasm between us, despite the silence, I find myself here, repeating these words like an echo from a distant past.

Every year, I have written. Every year, I have surrendered to the urge to speak to you in the only way left to me. But I suspect that I have said all of this before. It is a cycle, a ritual as predictable as the rising sun. And yet, I do not expect an answer, nor do I desire one. The only thing I wish for is your happiness—pure, untainted, and undisturbed by ghosts of the past.

Good memories remain untouched by regret, though they are accompanied by the immutable truth that we cannot rewind time, cannot undo the damage we inflicted. All we can do is carry them, cherish them, and move forward with the knowledge of what was.

If these words ever reach you, may they find you in joy, in health, in a life free from the burdens I once placed upon you. May you be surrounded by kindness, by love that does not bind but liberates.

You once told me that I would find the solution to my problems, and in the last moment we spoke, you gave me nothing but silence. It was the hardest lesson I have ever learned, and yet it was the most necessary. That silence was the greatest teacher I have ever known. Through it, I learned discipline, acceptance, and suffering. Through it, I found my path, and in that path, I found faith.

I still have your green sweater, the one that carries the scent of time and of a past life. And I still have the scarf you made for me, the one you carefully wove with imported wool. These are relics now, fragments of a history that no longer belongs to the present.

Wisdom is a path walked slowly, and under this sun, all suffering has been felt before by others. There is nothing new in pain, nor in regret. There is only the endurance to bear it, and the resilience to continue.

I still listen to those songs, the ones that colored the backdrop of our time together—These Eyes, Come Undone, Burn, Child in Time. And yes, even Nine in the Afternoon and Suddenly I See, though I imagine you have long since left them behind. Tonight, before I sleep, I will listen to Battery one last time, a song that once intertwined with our kisses in a moment of reckless eternity.

I have not loved another since you, but do not grieve for that. Love, in its truest form, is rare, and for me, it came only once. And that is enough. I no longer search, no longer expect.

I was never good for you, and I know this now as I did not know then. But now, above all else, I fear the Lord. In Him, I have found the understanding I lacked. He, the Almighty, has shown me that everything has a purpose under this sun, that all things have their time, and ours has long since passed. My greatest sin was loving you more than I loved Him, and for that, I have repented. We all have our own journey, our own story to tell, and mine will be one of faith and redemption.

So thank you, K. Thank you for existing, for being the brightest star in a part of my life that once felt endless. Thank you for what you taught me, not only when we were together, but more so in the silence that followed. In that silence, I found understanding, and in that understanding, I found my path.

Your silence must be honored, for it has been the greatest lesson of my life. And so, I write these words not to you, but to the wind, to the void, to the echoes of a time long past.

Be well, be happy, be at peace.

With nothing but respect and silent gratitude;

C. H. Barbosa