This race, and this world...

I showed you that song. I showed you 'this'. You repeated the words after me. I couldn't help but think, when I said, 'this feeling and this girl' of you. You were standing in front of me and it's the closest I'll get to telling you, probably. Because you're not a girl, and I'm just past being one. I came home at eight tonight. I could have stayed where I was longer, but I wanted to talk to you and I wanted to be tired. I would have loved nothing more than to come in and wind myself up in your arms and your soft skin, stroke your hair. Envelop you like a blanket. I was cold and tired, and I wanted you. I couldn't have you in my arms, so I basked in your smile instead and smoked with you and taught you, seeing the words I say interpreted in your mouth.

I said you were 'touchante, engageante,attachante' when you lisp in English. You're lovely. You said, 'et on fait des bisous' and we did tonight, one on each cheek. Why, I wonder? Why some nights? I will have to do this more for you. Do you know you're beautiful? Probably not. Maybe you think you were, a while ago. You sometimes say, 'ca ne me fait pas trop jeune fille?' when you wear a dress, and you let slip the odd thing. I tell you there are lots of fish in the sea. I don't tell you that I'd like to be the one you're angling for. I don't say, 'do you know you're lovely, with your gossamer blonde hair and your eyes that light up, so dark and so vivid, and your soft skin that's so smooth and so warm, and your straight teeth and your mouth when you laugh with your lips so finely and sensibly cut, so French? Do you know your cheekbones and your skinny arms and legs make me worried, that I yearn to stroke your little stomach, especially when you admonish yourself for it, and that you're undeniably chic, and that the way you move, graceful and bouncing, is so endearing?'. I don't say those things. I smile. I quote poetry and songs. Those are ways of saying what I mean. Et sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau, les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres. That's how I feel for you. I'm sobbing for joy (though I never say that and wouldn't want to, it's far too pretentious), energy amid something classic and strong. That's what I feel. You say I've given you a new taste for Verlaine. I want to give you English poetry. I want to give you poetry about beautiful women, not arrogant, condescending mockery designed to get women into bed (like the first poem I learned- why did you choose that one, why? Accroupie is so harsh). I want to give you something to show you how beautiful you are, darling.