I hope you don’t mind me calling you Kylie. You probably don’t - I don’t really listen to your music now, but as far as I know I think you release it as “Kylie”, and forget the “Minogue”. I thought I should write you this letter, because David Bowie died yesterday and I cried for him. And it reminded me about when I learned that you had breast cancer. It was like finding a hairline crack in a delicate blown-glass vase, sitting high on a shelf filled with other beautiful things made from my childhood loves. Apart from the very human sympathy I felt for you, I felt a deep unease in myself. The world felt less safe.
I don’t remember the moment I first fell in love wth you. I had your single “I should be so lucky” on vinyl. I feel like it had “Locomotion” on the b-side, but I may be misremembering. I was young - pre-teen I think - and you were a gorgeous early nineties goddess on the sleeve. A black stretchy off-the-shoulder top, and a pile of blonde curly hair on top of your head. That megawatt smile. I think in the music video for “Locomotion” you wore a series of dresses with hearts on them, and even though I wasn’t really into love-heart patterns I thought you were so pretty. I thought, “I’d like to wear a dress like that”.
I even tried to watch Neighbours for you, and that was a challenge because my parents were pretty strict about what television shows we could watch. Neighbours was definitely on the No List. I thought you were great, a rebel in your double denim, and I thought you and Jason Donovan were just perfect for each other.
Maybe it sounds like my love for you was shallow, just a surface attraction. I think it was more. You seemed so sunny and bright - and I wasn't a very sunny child. Opposites attract, right?
I’m still pleased to see you, but I don’t seek you out. It happens sometimes by accident - like when I watched 20,000 Days On Earth, and there you were in Nick Cave’s car. I felt a glimmer of old feelings - like catching sight of a old lover across the street, when they’ve not seen you. And letting them walk away.
I don’t recall when I stopped loving you. It was just one day I didn’t. I still care though, but it’s an intellectual sort of caring, the kind that has little warmth in it. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you. But I could say that about a lot of people - about a lot of strangers - and that’s not love, is it? At least not the type that can sustain you. I’m just going to leave this letter here, in case you find it one day; I want you know that although I may not love you anymore, I do wish you well. I hope that’s enough.