You are beautiful, but you don't understand me

Though you do. You open me up and let me be who I am, and that is new for me. I don't have to impress you; I can be who I want.

You drive me mad. You don't listen, you try to play games and think that I play them, though I've only ever been honest with you about what I want. I am completely and utterly honest with you, more than I've ever been before. Are you the right person to be doing this with? Who knows.

I want to shout at you and pull you into my arms and hold you forever simultaneously. Or, not simultaneously, but my vacillation between the two is astonishingly frequent.

And you are astoundingly beautiful. I won't stop telling you so if you stop saying you're not, my love, so don't worry about that. I will always tell you.

Is it true that nobody told you before, that you were beautiful, that you were loved? That nobody touched your face as I do? I cannot quite believe it. You are so wonderful to hold, to look at, and so gentle in your touch. Such a light, delicate touch for such heavy-handed emotions. So loving. You hold me tightly in your arms and touch my face, kiss my breasts, touch me, and you are curious and tender. You adore my body, as I adore yours; wholeheartedly, enthusiastically. There is nothing I dislike about your body, and I tell you frequently that I do not just accept it, but that it is perfect. I adore your creamy skin, your softness. I adore the silhouetted line that dips, your waist. I adore the way that you fill my arms, the way that I can feel the weight of you. You cannot be broken, you see; you are something strong, because you have odd ideas, but you have refused to let the softness be knocked out of you. Life has tried to harden you, but it has not succeeded, because you are still soft, and naive, and sweet to anyone that gives you the time of day. There is such strength in your softness, in your body and in your mind. Such beauty in your eyes that are continually astounded by the world, such astonishment in your enthusiasm. Such valiant strength, my love.

I adore the way that we fit together, like tessellating mirrors, at night. When we fall asleep, thighs over thighs, your head on my chest. I stroke you to soothe myself to sleep, your back, your face, anywhere. You are very comforting. When you're wrapped  up, safe and sound, in my arms and I know that you won't do anything to harm yourself at that moment, because you're happy. You make me happy too. I have started liking my shoulders more, did you know that? I never thought that someone liking them would make me do that, but you do. I don't feel as masculine as I did. I've never had any complaints, but somehow, you've made me feel better about myself. You've given me a present. Did you know that you fell asleep making love to me last Saturday? Your hand was between my legs, and I laughed and wrapped you up in my arms. You work hard, you drink too much, you don't sleep enough. I'm delighted that I have such a soporific effect on you.

My love. Love does not mean never arguing, never going to bed angry, never displeasing the other. Love means all of those things; love means honesty, even when it hurts, and compromising, and always being yourself. Love means that you go out of your way to cause the least hurt possible to the other, when you can.  Love means letting the other go, if needs be. You don't understand yet, but you will. We love in opposite ways, you and I; yours is a love of great passion, gestures, words. Occasionally empty ones. Mine is a love via actions, where you have to listen to what is unsaid (litotes), a love that declares itself when it is sure. I don't want to hurt you before, you see. You have had enough hurt in your life, darling, and I do not wish to add to it. I hope that you don't add too much to mine.

How could nobody have told you those things? Are you lying to make me want you more? I was always told that I was loved, and it was also proved; maybe that is why people want to tell me now. I command love. Do I command love? I don't know. A wide variety of people have always been very keen to tell me that they love me. How could they not have told you? You are not half as spiky as I am, far softer, beautiful. How could people not have told you?

I love you, darling. I love you. Te iubesc. Je t'aime. I just hope that you're listening so that you can hear it.

You make me...

You gave me something nobody else ever has.

You ask so little, and so much... you want me forever, you want me to trust you, and you want me to love you. I think I do, so I say... I love you, te iubesc, je t'aime. I think I do. You never judge me and we can argue.

I'm on my period, and I worry about having cancer but I am so happy that you made me do that.

You are reassuring.

I want to wrap you up and feed you wholesome things, stop you drinking so much, make you calm.

Can alcoholics drink moderately? I don't know if you can.

That baby, left in an orphanage because it was illegitimate. Until you were five. Just because of your parents. Your Mum not looking after you. Your Grandma, who beat you so much, but whom you loved. Nobody ever telling you that they loved you (oh, darling). Your having nobody. How did you become so lovely, then?  How did you manage that? You were homeless, you're an alcoholic. You're not pleased with your life but you are so sweet to me. How did you become as you are?

Blow out all the candles, blow out all the candles...

You're not always interesting to talk to. You don't see things clearly, you don't know what you've done wrong and you don't listen. You think that leaving someone you don't love is worse than stalking someone for three years. You... think I never finish with people. Or go all the way. You'd be right.

I think that with HC, I will. Or I might.

How can I be so torn? I am perfectly myself with you, because I can see you clearly and you can see me, but I don't think we listen to each other properly. I miss you, still. You held me twice today, and asked me if I was scared. I wasn't. I desire you, still, a bit. It's just that HC excites me more. Though you're so Constant, like your name, and I couldn't stand to think that you might think it was because you're not beautiful when you are, you are, you are. Nobody helped you. I want to be the first to do that, the first to be constant for you.

We sit and chat in the rain for four hours. You rub my back to warm me. I don't stop you, though I know there are other reasons. I smoke an illicit cigarette and drink some of your lager, that you wanted to give up but haven't. You smoke several cigarettes. You ask me about me, but then go off on a tangent, though I don't mind because you generally say interesting things. You correct my French and I flick Vs at you.

And yet, we're gentle with each other. It's odd. We might be good together, you and I, if everything else wasn't in the way. Your slightly racist views, my lack of commitment, your propensity to put people in danger and mine to protect those around me from it. Your drinking. Your kisses are enough... but all you ever wanted was my heart, or my face, without its wrinkles. You only want me because I look good, though that's not strictly true. You are comforting, but you'd rather I looked perfect always, your version of perfect. You do like me for other things too though, deeper things, and you are kind to me, but I need someone that accepts the wrinkles on my forehead and the way I look when I'm about to cry. Not everybody sees that, and you didn't want to. It kills me not to give myself to you, because...

HC is coming. I smiled all the way home from work that day. Beamed as I sailed through the traffic thinking, she will come. I can't remember her, though. I can't quite remember.

I remember her tying a yellow ribbon round my wrist. I remember, in Belgium, how she looked at things. How we didn't speak for 20 minutes, and I don't know why, because I wanted to so badly. I think she made the first move. I remember how she said, 'Fleet... like a fairy place'. I remember her, partially. Fragmented.

I remember the first time that I saw her. I remember her coming into KJ's house, after a drive, looking shy. I decided to be kind to her, because she looked kind. She was wearing the hat she always wears, the one that's too small for her head, and she looked so serious. She is. Then she said that she liked the sound of the word 'Fleet', and I laughed, and thought... oh. I can't remember what else she said that day, but it was enough to make me go with her to collect G's friend from the train station, a team, because I knew the way and she could drive, and enough for me to think of her for a long time afterwards.

What am I doing? She'll never be interested. She is Christian, she lives over the sea. She is coming to see me.

We've only met twice.

What does that mean?

Everybody wants to come to my city. Is that why? Did I ask too much?

Will she expect brilliant things? Oh Lord.

I think I think I think...

I think I might fall for you. I just might. Though I've idealised you, and I've been able to because I haven't seen you. I've been able to build you up, and I've been able to forget you a bit. Though I haven't forgotten that pull I felt in my stomach when I parted from you on a Belgian train, I haven't forgotten the way you look at things and I haven't forgotten the way you make me laugh, though what did we laugh about? I can't remember. We just laughed and skipped and...

Here's what I'd like to do with you when you come:

Feed you. I like feeding people I like. You like chicken and meat and cheese.
Ride around on the bikes.
Laze around and watch films.
Get slightly tipsy.
Introduce you to everyone, once you know. I want them to know you because you are amazing.
Feed the sparrows in the Tuileries.
Go rowing in the Bois de Boulogne.
See what happens...
Oh god.

Oh my lord...

She's coming. HC is coming to see me. She's Christian and shy and she probably won't want me. I don't know if I  want her. So much has happened since I last saw her. She could be awful, she could hate me because I love women, she could...

She could come and we'd find that we were the same after all and we'd...

I don't feel as I did with Constant. I felt... worried, and secure at the same time. With HC, I feel excited and panicked. Maybe that's how Constant felt with me, but for different reasons. Or exactly the same ones. I've not really felt, not since I was six, that this could be the sole person. Maybe it's because she's like my father; mathematical, calm, safe. Considered. Oh God, what am I doing?

I don't know.

Shit.

I feel like it might be long term with HC, even though we live in different countries and speak different languages. I'm not logical or halting. I don't process things.

I can't remember her properly, and the thought of Constant is comforting, but I feel... as though I could run forever when I think of HC.

I feel... nervous.

I miss you so very much.

It's been two weeks since we were together, and we parted upon my behest. I am not quite sure that this was the right thing to do. Before you, I always split up with people when I was absolutely sick of them, or they split up with me, leaving me broken-hearted, but in no doubt. With you, there's doubt. We split up because:

1. You don't listen to me.
2. You are racist.
3. You need someone that can promise you those things, and I am not sure that I love you. I am not sure that you love me for the right reasons; you tell me that I am beautiful and young, and don't like it when I am not smiling. You don't want the real me, you want a doll. Anodyne and perfect.
4. I can't tell you where I live, because I don't trust you. You have not been reasonable before, and I am glad, now, that I did not; lord knows what you'd do.
5. I am sometimes bored when I am with you.
6. I can read you, but I can't trust you. You give up alcohol for two weeks, then slip back into it. You vascillate, now that we are apart, between wanting to see me and not wanting to see me, more frequently plumping for the former.

But oh, your body. Your beautiful body. When you write to me and tell me that you are sad or desperate or lonely, I just want to curl up with you and touch the small of your back, your skin which is so soft, hold your hands that are roughened by daily work but which touch me so gently, and be kind to you. You say that you are embarrassed by your body- 'je suis complexee'- because so many have not loved you, and thus there must be something wrong with it. No, no, never. I miss it so much. I miss you so much that I have kept one of your jumpers and curl up with it before going to sleep so that I can breathe in your floral scent, though nothing matches your shoulders, your chest, your firm jawline and your slow smile that comes when I kiss you. You do not like your face, nor your body, nor the skin tags on your neck or the 'stigmata' on your chest, little brown marks that once were red because you were stressed. I adore all of these things, because they are beautiful, because I adore you, I suppose. Though you are not right for me. Even so, I cannot forget that you were the first not to make me feel sexually incompetent, to hold me in your arms and say that it was alright. You did not make me feel less than. You are so soft and beautiful, and so firm; you open up, warm, your body works. I think of lily pads blooming on clear ponds, because when I touch you, you are far more present than when you are not listening during the day. You seem very real, and very close. You look perfect naked. Your thighs that you detest are beautiful, your dear face, not worried as in the day, but glad. Your cheekbones that I can stroke, your hips which are so beautiful and your collarbone. Your breasts, that I have touched so often, so beautiful. Your neck. Your eyes that are not at all confused or clouded tonight. You are calmer; you seem closer to your 39 years whilst seeming younger. You do not drop your head and wave it from side to side; you look at me and smile, because I am smiling, because you are so beautiful. And safe, though you're not, because I can't tell you where I live, just in case; but I can trust you with my body, and my safety. I miss telling you everything, because I am not ashamed to do so; I am truthful with you. I juxtapose reasons in my head; should I, shouldn't I... should I take up with you again? I couldn't bear to hurt you. You've been dragged all over the place by so many, and I will not add my name to that list. You are too important. Too vulnerable. The fact that you are vulnerable makes me want to wrap you up in my arms, touch the place on your forehead that your mother used to (before she was caught by the train), touch the places on your scalp that your grandma whacked, still present after three decades, kiss your eyebrows that are so worried some of the time (because of me, maybe), look into your eyes that have seen so much, that seek some reason for why the world has caused such harm; it must be because, because, because- though you never hit upon the right reason; it is not your body, it is not the way you eat, it is not that you are frightening- it is simply that you objectivise people, and I cannot love someone that renders me inanimate. Though you animate me; my stomach flips when I think of you being sad, when I know that it would be so easy to comfort you, and to comfort me too. I miss you.

I know why I am doing this. It is simply hard.

Sweet, thank you very very much.

Ah. I am sweet to say those things, those things are sweet.

I am not your sweet. How can I do this to Constant, feel this way and not tell her?

I forget that I like HC when she's far away, but not completely. When I'm with Constant, I feel odd, but I like her even so. Ugh.

Nobody at work takes me seriously. They are borderline teasing me. I want to be taken seriously. I feel like a ridiculous person.

1. I want people to show me respect.
2. But I also want them to correct me.
3. They don't push back deadlines for me.

But they do give me translations. I am trusted, but I also want to be respected.

You ask me to tell you about my day and I want to say...

I'm sort-of seeing  a crazy girl and want to go out to play chess, which I will do shortly. How does one become well-respected? I think people at work think I'm a joke- they make fun of my English accent. I don't like it. Someone nice said I'd made, 'a lot of progress' today. I don't think I have, but I hate being at the stage where a lot of progress is still noticeable (and further progress is still necessary). Hate it.

Do you know what would make my life perfect? Translating more, making huge advances in German and you and I living in France, or Brussels, or Germany in our own little flat, or maybe in a multilingual, and just spending all of our time laughing together and being kind to each other. That would be wonderful. Maybe we could have kids in a few years. We could play chess on Fridays. You're stable and vulnerable, and so am I, so I think life would be wonderful. We've got separate and similar interests, and I can tolerate yours.
'Tolerance' is the medical word for 'drug safety'.

You play chess. And you are beautiful. Ugh. And it's hopeless.

Axioms unproven.

an axiom= something one is prepared to accept as true without proof. x=y, y=z so x=z
Cardinal numbers=numbers that fit into perfect sets. There will always be more numbers than 'natural' numbers (1,2,3,4), so the sets have varying levels of infiniteness, graded according to a Godelian system.

Here is an axiomatic truth:

I adore you, HC.

Here's another:

I need to be touched.

And another:

There are people that wish to touch me.

There are people whose touch I appreciate.

They are not you.

I would appreciate your touch significantly more.

You make me laugh so much, and you are so beautiful.

I feel as though you and I divide into each other, unreal numbers that don't exist. I play with the edges of mathematical theorems and wish for your calm eyes.

I feel as though you and I would be together for always, because I am proud of you. You seem so honest, so  shy, sometimes, and so vulnerable, and I know that you would probably be good for me. You don't smoke, you're excellent at maths, you make me laugh and we could go biking and hiking and fall into each other's arms.

I send you poems with bright wings, burning bright, the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach when feeling out of sight. I've sent it now, there's no way to retract it, because I don't know how to fix it with an algorithm and I can't stop pouring myself out via my keyboard each time I think of you.

A sonnet that doesn't rhyme.

I save all of my best secrets for you.
For your slender arms, your eyes that meet mine
And then flick away, as if ashamed. As
If you know that I cannot stop myself
Gazing at you. I parcel out all of
My secrets, spooling them through the weeks, shot
Through with your algorithms. How is it
That you can't meet my eye and yet I apply
The axioms and find that I might well
Have loved before, just as I do now, but
How this differentiates, over the
Lines of states, figures inked interlinking
You and I. The entirety of my
hidden places, my hope. For you. My best.

This was not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about the girl that's soft, but I don't think I'll be with her for very long. I think she will be a diversion, from my consternation as I can't have HC. I think she needs someone, and I do, and she is soft and kind. She was embarrassed that I was wearing a moustache, and I think she might embarrass me. I can't imagine introducing her to friends or family. I can imagine introducing HC. I can imagine being so proud of her that it wouldn't hurt as much, because she is so clever and witty and beautiful, and her voice is like newly sanded wood.

My Aunt is dying, as she has been for many years, and I want to ring her up to tell her that I am sorry that I am not there. I want to tell her that it is alright, that she can die if she wants to, and that she does not owe anybody anything. That I loved spending time with her when I was a child, when she was my playmate, with dark hair, and how I was fascinated by her chair and equipment, and how I used to like eating with her and playing. How I liked her being there, a friendly presence with cold hands and a mug of coffee.

How I am sorry that I did not see her as much as I should have in later years. I wonder, sometimes, what life would have been like if she'd never caught the disease. She'd have grown up as clever as my Father is, and I might have had an aunt with cousins like brothers and sisters. I might have had an aunt who wrote and acted, I might have had... but then, I would not have had my Mother, nor her friends. They met because of you, because Grandma needed Social Services and my other Grandma happened to be a social worker. You have changed me in many ways; you were my confidante when I was young, you made me laugh, you were proud of me. I have never felt shocked or frightened by disabled people because of you. I have got my Mother and my Father, opposite in so many ways, and yet bound together, because of you.

I'm sorry that my Father can't summon the correct emotions for you. I know that you always want more, and he can't give it. He spent too much time being shunted to one side for you as a child, or caring for you, or being compared to his cousin for not being good enough at being a clown, or being blustery. These are not worthwhile qualities, and besides, it is difficult to summon those emotions when your father's dead and your sister is disabled. It was hard for him. He has never said this and never discusses it. Like me, he is secretive, sometimes. He loves you, I think. I don't know what he feels about you, but he can't be the hearty sort of person that you seem to crave. He can't be jolly. He tries, for you, to make you happy, but it's not his style. He is far more than that. He will give you permission to go, if you need it. He is fighting for you to get what you want, which is death, and he would always fight for you, when he can. He wants to calm you, he does care, and I ache for him, and for you. I ache for what your relationship could have been if you'd been well. I ache because neither of you can understand the ways that the other loves, or you can, but you can't reciprocate. He once said something to the effect that he feels bad for feeling ashamed of you, or for not being able to be jovial. He can't help it. He was just a child, and he had so much to deal with. Asking him to subdue his feelings is simply cruel. He has got a right to feel the way he feels, and I feel angry that he is expected to feel a certain way, and sad that you can't have someone that feels that way about you that you care about as much as you care about him. He is more than jovial; he is stoic and brave, and kind. You would say that he is the best brother. I think you are right.

I want to say thank you. Go peacefully. I love you.

I want to give you something...

Though I don't know whether you want anything from me.

I want to write to you daily, in the same manner as I write to you here, only I can't.

I feel vaguely lonely, and if I could, I'd write:

You make me laugh like nobody else, and I want you to come to Paris for a week and sleep in my bed to see what happens.

I'm sorry for sending you an over involved analysis of that poem. I just desperately want to say everything to you, and I can't, so I ramble instead.

You're very beautiful. Did you know?

Come here, and we'll collapse laughing in my room, over cobblestones, anywhere. Then we'll decide.

I probably won't write any of this. I have received messages from other friends, but I'm always slightly disappointed to find that it's not you. Oh. I want to ask you a good question, one that makes you want to respond. How?

How did you get to be so beautiful?

I can imagine us arguing. About faith, about us, about where we live (because we are different species, you and I. Different kinds). I can imagine it being awful, us both drinking to much, especially me, and sleeping in separate rooms. What would happen afterwards?

I could imagine that we might ignore each other for the next few days, before eventually holding hands again.

I could imagine us collapsing into bed the following night in a flurry of sorries. I don't usually apologise, but I might to you.

I probably wouldn't. I'm stubborn, and I couldn't lie to you. I wouldn't apologise unless I really and truly wanted to, unless I felt sorry.

I might just pull myself back into your arms. Or you'd curl into mine.

I discussed (with the Supermodel) being with someone you're not utterly in love with. I can't do it. I'd rather be alone than feel that awful disjunct, bearable with a one-night stand but hideous when you know that you could feel something so wonderful with someone else. My friend said that she was happy tonight, that she wanted to marry her boyfriend and they'd spoken about it, but I wasn't convinced. There was something slightly off. I wouldn't ever want to settle for second best.

You're first.

You're not embarrassing.

I went out with the supermodel tonight, and a friend from University. I realised that I was occasionally embarrassed by my friend; she speaks too much, about herself, and is interested in trivial things. She's cultivated an American accent and is at culinary school. I am also interested in trivial things, but to a lesser extent, I think.

I was embarrassed by her, but at least I could discuss it with the Supermodel. We were never that close, the friend and I, at University, so the gap I felt didn't hurt too much. I felt glad, too- a lot of people that we knew at University that did my course have jobs in the media, or are still in education. I want to be educated further, but I don't necessarily want to go into marketing or something meaningless. As difficult and abysmal as my job can be, I like the fact that it's hard and that I'm helping people, in an indirect way. I am glad that I didn't move to London to start a media career that would have been absolutely useless to everyone on the planet. I regret that I didn't study a scientific subject, but I'm glad that I learned French and German, and that I'm in a vaguely medical field now.

The embarrassment I felt made me start thinking of you, and your mathematical genius. I don't know whether what you do helps people or not, but it is certainly difficult. You are lovely. You'd never talk about yourself incessantly (though I talk about myself incessantly when I'm with you), and you ask beautiful questions. You look shyly at the world, and it smiles back. You are a proof, of a theorem I'm not sure of, but there you are. I want to use mathematical language with you, I want to tap into your codes and embed myself in your system as you have embedded yourself in mine. I could be embarrassed about your faith, I suppose. I don't believe. I'd defend your right to believe, if it came to it. Nonetheless, you aren't an ardent defender yourself; when the other bridesmaids argued at our table, we kept steadfastly quiet. I didn't take one side, you didn't take the other. You know that I am a non-believer, an atheist. Or agnostic. Actually, agnostic is inaccurate, because I know what I believe. I believe that if there is a God, then it must be so remote and removed from us that it could not possibly care whether or not we build churches or honour it in whatever way possible. Surely an omnipotent, omniscient and omnibenevolent being would be free of human emotions such as pride or jealousy, which are (in any case) mentioned as sins? If God exists, why would it care whether or not we built cathedrals and churches to it, or came to worship it every Sunday? Religion, for me, is interesting as a cultural artefact. I like churches because I like the sentiment locked into their bricks; I like the routine, the way that someone has stood on these stones and sang the same songs for centuries. People have believed for centuries. I feel a link with my ancestors, as if we're not just floating alone. Christianity, to me, seems like a Roman or Greek religion; interesting stories, cultural mores and a way of uniting people. No more.

I would worry about discussing this with you. I don't want to hurt you or discover that there's something insurmountable between us. Defender of the faith... I'd defend your right to faith, even though I don't believe. My name, after all, is a derivative of 'Queen'. It amounts to the same thing at home. Fidei defensor.

I've faith in you, darling. Faith that you'd never do anything wrong, faith that you'd be kind. Faith that your arms are the loveliest in the world. She of the lovely arms. So, for you, I could be.

Fidei Defensor.

The Supermodel came tonight, and we talked about you. It's odd. Objectively, she's perfect- she's clever and fun, and very beautiful- yet I don't feel anything for her. I admire her, and, despite all odds (my jealousy over her astronomic IQ and general aptitude for life), she's become a great friend.

We spoke about the places that felt most like home, and she said she hadn't found one. I said that I hadn't really, either, but it's not true. Home is people, we decided. I spoke about you. I said you were funny and Christian and a mathematician. We don't talk about big subjects, you and I- we don't talk about religion, or marriage, thus there's no way for me to discuss the possibility of us. I tried to remember what we spoke about, but I can't.

I just remember
Laughing
Worrying that it wouldn't be the same
But it is.
The same
Twice
<0 .01p="" nbsp="" p="">Whatever that means, I've heard it's good news.

You can answer any numerical quibble
So I ask
To hear your response
Affirmative
I couldn't bear a no.
No.
No.

I can't remember you
Quantatively
But I remember how it felt
To be with you
Free as air
As if I'd taken something
Lifting off the ground
Wanting so badly to anchor myself
By holding your hand.
A funambulist
Between daring and not
As our skipping steps
Matched my heartbeat
Yet I breathed
Calm and deep
Aerial.

What comforts you?

I'd like to know. Mine are:

1. Walking
2. Tea
3. Listening to melancholy things
4. Bread and chocolate
5. Reading on my own
6. Being in your arms.

6. hasn't happened. <0 .5="" a="" after="" an="" at="" backache.="" been="" being="" br="" but="" could="" day="" different="" effort="" film="" hard="" have="" here.="" i="" if="" it="" italian="" much="" people="" probability="" that="" tonight="" too="" was="" watched="" were="" with="" work="" would.="" would="" you="">

I don't think you drink tea. You like meat. You like chicken, especially. You like thinking, but you don't always get caught up in films. You get cold, despite your uniform, those trousers, your hat, the layers.

I'd keep you warm.

Today
I saw a woman
With long thin legs in sensible trousers
And a misshapen woollen hat
Walking a tiny dog.
On meeting a friend, its lead
Was bound about those legs and
She stood, skewed yet straight,
As you do
With your silken hair
Hanging like a flag
Something in the weft,
Approaching
Your hat
She laughed
And I turned back whilst lengthening my stride
Thrice
To glimpse this changeling you
In vesperal light
On Parisian streets. 

Apparently, couples who spend years together begin to look alike.

I wouldn't mind that. With you. We're both white females, the same age, with freckles, and fairly tall, but you are delicate in parts; wrists, ankles. You've got a long, refined nose, and high cheekbones. Huge eyes. Tapered hands, long, elegant limbs. Not that it makes any difference, because you just want to hop and skip all over the place when we're together. You're quiet and shy, or you act the fool, and don't really seem to think about the grace you exude. Or strength, maybe it's a strength. Unknown grace. Amazing. You've got a chest, too. I am the inverse; my nose is short where yours is long, my limbs are stocky and most often used to open jars. I am broad, almost masculine, with no remarkable breasts, though there have been those that have remarked that I am graceful. Nobody guesses that I am masculine, as a result of my predilection for skirts. Though I occasionally look at pictures of myself and wonder whether a drag queen wouldn't have done a more convincing job. I don't mind my appearance, particularly. I don't like ageing, but I can get used to it. I'm gradually coming to terms with my build.

In any case, darling, it would be a privilege to grow to look like you. Though I prefer looking at you.

Do you laugh whilst looking shy with everyone that much, or is it just me? I'm going to torture myself with this question a while longer. Ugh.

I got a message from you today...

And I'm waiting to read it until tomorrow. Savouring. Though I shouldn't.

I should open it, reply, get it out of my system. I should tell you that I am gay, and see how you react. Depending on that, maybe I would hold your hand. In the future. At some point.

Everything is boring without you. You probably don't feel the same, because you are a genius who makes proper friends instead of temporary ones. I want to see your photos of me, because you took them. Or commissioned them.

Ugh. Hop over the pond, darling. Sleep on my floor. Chat until we fall asleep, then, in the middle of the night,  come and curl up next to me in my bed. I'll put my arms around you and kiss you and we'll sleep soundly.

I think you're my height, but you're actually smaller. I think you'd feel small, firm and soft in my arms. I'd like to curl up with you and kiss your shoulders.

Speaking of you...

I spoke about you to K today. She thinks I'm mad. 'Do you know what Christians think about people like you?', was her essential argument. Sadly, she's probably right. I felt vaguely angry with her for suggesting it. You might be fine with my loving women. You might accept. You might accept me in your arms.

If you wanted to, but were scared, I know what I'd say. I'd say that I didn't know whether God exists or not, but that if it does, then it must have better things to do than administrate relationships based on sexual organs. Babies are dying in the Sudan, it can't be more important that two people adore each other and want to be together but have the wrong genitalia. You might say that this could be a test. I would ask what the test was. To leave me, and be with someone you didn't love because they had the right parts, and make two people live a loveless life, or to tell everyone something really difficult and be happy with someone who adores you. God made all things bright and beautiful, apparently. Why should they be hidden away? I'd say, lastly, that when I am with you I feel vulnerable. I feel like I want to tell you the beautiful truth, all the time, even when it's not beautiful. I am truthful, generally, but I want to be more so with you. I want you to know everything I'm thinking. I want to be strong because of you, I want to protect you, from what I don't know, I want to hold you and I want to be vulnerable with you. I want to be kinder to people. I want to be brave. All because of you. How could that be bad, darling? How could any of that be a sin?

In any case, it's hopeless. You're across the channel, a believer and most probably in love with that accountant, who knows about maths and languages. Something in me hardens when I get told that it's impossible to have you, though I am slowly accepting it. I just want you so badly at the moment. You make me choke with laughter and you're shy and sharp and your gaze makes me stall. I want to look at the pictures of you and me. I want...

How could I have forgotten?

I saw you last weekend. We've only met twice, ever, and yet I feel as though I want to move back to my homeland just to be with you. I don't know whether or not you feel the same way. Probably not. You are Christian, and you purport to be heterosexual on the network that you never use to contact me, or rarely. I'd like to contact you on it all the time. I'd like to be around you constantly, when I wake up, when I fall asleep, and to find out whether or not you would irk me incessantly after a few months or weeks.

It's hopeless. I want to stay here or go to Belgium or Germany or Russia, and you're happy in our homeland. How would you cope with my atheism, and what sort of weft would homosexuality and Christianity create? Your life and mine, plashed together. It feels like fate.

I cannot forget how beautiful your face is, how your pale blue eyes gaze out of their hollows, careful and perspicacious, at everything. The upturned D your mouth forms at rest. Your cheekbones, and your narrow, aquiline nose. Your bushy eyebrows. Your dark hair, falling in thick strands, held back by long hairgrips. You look perfect, in your hat that's too small for your head and those trousers you always wear. Diligent hands. How you laugh. It's odd, your laugh- almost wheezing, and then you laugh a bit more after you've stopped, appreciating the joke. You make me laugh too, so much so that I choke on my salad.

Your friend was there, and I wished, almost, that he wasn't. Another heathen like me. He was kind and I liked him, but I like you more. I could have spoken to you all day, let you kill me with laughter, skip along the canal, take photos of windmills that you like and hunt chocolate. I didn't want to get my train back. I wanted to go and sit in a darkened cinema with you, brush your arm, whisper in your ear.

You said that you felt as though you could open up to me, more than with G, despite having known her far longer. I feel the same way. I feel as though I could never lie to you, even though I'm in awe of you. 'Why can't we live like horses', you ask. I make fun of you, but I know the answer. I wouldn't want to live without music, to live without knowing what it is to feel like this for you. A horse, though free of pain, can't feel any of that. If I had hooves, I'd never be able to touch you gently as I want to. I might never be able to anyway, but at least there's a slight chance. However slight.

So I begin to imagine. I imagine that you'd suddenly want to move to Belgium, that we'd find a flat, do all of those things; watching films, cooking, going on walks and bike rides, eventually waking up in each others' arms and arguing about all things great and small. I imagine the ideal. It could happen in the Green and Pleasant Land too, I suppose, or among dark satanic mills. I imagine you telling me why we can't. I imagine me telling you that this feeling, to adore and protect you, to be with you, to be honest and good, that you rouse in me could never be bad.

I imagine stroking your hair when the lights go out and whispering how beautiful you are. I imagine kissing you gently. I want to be gentle, though you are strong, because of the way your eyes look shy sometimes. Because your strength makes me want to be strong for you, and gentle to you, because you deserve it.

I didn't give you a hug on parting. I did when I saw you. I wanted nothing more than to do it, but your friend was there, and I didn't want to hug him, but I didn't want to exclude him either. Maybe he's yours? Maybe you love him?

How can I feel this way when we haven't seen each other more than twice? Coup de foudre.

Hello, my love.

I can't stop thinking about you lately. It could be because I need someone desperately, or because you're soft, intelligent, strong and kind. Lady of the house, of yours now, alone, which you regard as a privilege. 

Darling. Did you know that despite your strength, I want to wrap you up in my arms and protect you? You don't need protecting because you are strong. You go out into the world to fight your battles, to live well, and expect that everyone wants the best for all mankind, as you do. They don't. It must be sad, sometimes. I want to be there when you're sad, if you want me to be, to wrap my arms around you, to give you a soft place in the world and to tell you that you're beautiful and kind, and so gentle that it makes me ache to touch you. You're not gentle when campaigning, but your voice is strong and cadent. I have listened to you over waves, oceanic and digital, just to hear you speak about drones, though you never drone. You mean what you say. You speak with certainty. Your voice is as smooth and creaking as planed wood, the floorboards in my house that I know every inch of the way. Though I don't know you so intimately. I want to. I want to relax into your voice. I want to be in your arms, close to your chest, so that I can hear it from the inside as I drift off to sleep. I want to hear you all the time, my love.

You were a life model, and I remarked that it was brave. You said that everyone had said that, and that that must not bode well for your body. Au contraire, my darling. Your body is perfect. It is small and soft, and when I imagine you and I, I don't imagine a hard, photorealistic versimilitude of a corpus. I imagine you. I imagine a body that has given life to two children, a body that has worked, a body that still works, and that is  lovely. I imagine a body that is yours, a body that ages and progresses, whose cells are still reproducing, whose owner is intelligent, and soft, and kind. In short, you. Anyone drawing you would be privileged to do so. That, my love, is a privilege. 

You are beautiful.

Here's what's wrong...

1. You folded up my washing, that is almost dry but not quite. You did this because you always think you know best and you don't want me hanging around your house, but you come to say goodnight to me and want to chat. I don't want to chat, because there's no point in doing so, because you won't ever listen to me. I am like a child to you, and you will never take my advice, nor will you ever take me seriously. You think the same things about me as I do about myself, and that is more damaging than if you thought differently.

2. I think that you think that I am incapable, and hopeless, and not qualified enough, without a certain depth that is required to succeed.

3. I am angry that I can't say any of this to you, because it'll only result in you being right, as always. You'll never consider the possibility that you might be wrong. Nor the possibility that I might be right.

4. I have accepted that this is your house, and that I haven't really got a place here. I cannot, however, accept that you also hold jurisdiction over my clothes.

5. I need to move out.

6. I am feeling hopeless because everyone else's life is moving on, whereas mine seems to be one dead-end job after another without any semblance of love. I am travelling the world but distancing myself from all of my friends, who forget me. It's easy to do.

I want to cry or shout. I will probably do neither.

Hello. Tell me all about your day...

Hello darling.

You're in the centre of England, and I'm over here. I've started a new job. It's reasonable; not as exciting as I thought it would be, but I'm learning a lot. People don't understand my accent, when I speak French. I'm foreign. I'm also losing that finesse I used to have in my mother tongue, I feel somehow duller.

I think of you often, mostly before going to sleep. You are a comforting thought. When I see you, you hold me so tight. You tell me beautiful things, and true things, and you make me reconsider my previously held views. You are kind and intelligent. You want the best for everyone. You are generous, despite not having much money. You are useful to the world, and have made that your mission in life, apropos of nothing other than a desire to help others. You don't think that this is a rare quality, but it is. Your body is so firm and soft, simultaneously, and your hands have worked so hard. If I ever dared, I think that the first thing I'd do would be to kiss those hands. I'd like to sit next to you and hold your hands gently in mine, then kiss the palms, the fingers.

You write to your granddaughter, you say, maybe, because you aren't sharing your day with anyone else. I say that it's better to share it with nobody than to share it with someone you're not sure about. I hate feeling that disjunct between myself and the person I'm supposed to be closest to. I can't bear it. I'd rather be on my own than pretending to somebody.

What did you wear, on her mother's wedding day, darling? How was it? I hope everyone was kind to you. You often seem almost embarrassed by yourself. You've got conviction in your beliefs; that we don't have to present ourselves or be superficial to be considered sufficient, but at an event, one that's not making you happy, where everyone is dressed up, it must be hard. Being marginal is always hard. If I could, if I was that person, I'd love to be your safe place. I'd love it if my arms made you feel as safe as your arms make me feel. I want to be there after hard days for you to wrap yourself up in. I want to be soft and gentle with you, though I am not, in the world.

I wouldn't have to pretend with you. I wonder how you'd react to being told you're beautiful? I don't think it's your aim in life, beauty. To be beautiful in what you do and say, yes, but to be beautiful... you buy your clothes in second hand shops, and you don't care. I've never seen you wear make up. Your hair is short or wild, and natural, grey. You remind me of a hedgehog, because your cheeks are russet, like the autumn and you smile so readily. Your eyes are bright and kind behind Gandhi glasses. Would it insult you, to call you beautiful? I'd never mean to allay you with supermodels or trashy magazines. I just mean that there's nobody else I'd rather look at, or hear, or touch. The other kind of beauty is cheap; it's bought, or made. Nobody could buy or fabricate what you are. Nobody could buy the feeling of safety elicited from your strong arms wrapped around me, despite your being so much smaller than me. Your beauty is deep and rich, it's extravagant though you're abstemious. Would you be worried, being notified as to your possession of something so luxurious?

You haven't got a passport, hence you won't be following me around Europe. You're steadfast like that. I don't want to return to our isle. Maybe it's homesickness that makes me yearn so for someone familiar, intelligent and kind; or maybe it is simply you.

Love,

me.

I bet you looked beautiful.

Your daughter got married yesterday, to somebody you don't particularly like. I thought of you. You were worried about clothes, and about what you'd say to far-flung relations of opposite convictions to your pacifist self.

I'm sure you were beautiful. I'd have loved to be in your flat at the end of the day, when you came back, tired, to help you out of the clothes you wore and take down your hair. I don't know what you'd have said. 'I feel wrong', or, 'it was quite nice, actually', or, 'it was so uncomfortable', or, 'I didn't know what to say'. I'd have said, 'you look beautiful, my darling, in whatever you wear. However you are. I'm sure that you spoke beautifully, and even if you didn't, then you are beautiful. There's nobody's voice I'd rather hear, no one else's  arms I'd rather have around me'. 

I only want all this if you want it too, and I don't think you do. I'm here in France, you're in England, and you've given up your passport in solidarity. There is no evidence; you hold me tight when we meet and when we part, and I do the same to you. I believe that you hold me tight because you're honest and heartfelt, and, like most of the world, you think I need holding together. You've never expressed that, but you'd be right in thinking it, because I do. I need you to hold me together, to be precise. I need your particular brand of sensible kindness, your way of doing extraordinary things that are so routine for you, your intelligence and your soft strength. I adore your slight shyness, when you feel you've spoken too long or revealed something too intimate. It seems to me that your right shoulder, your relaxed elbows and the welcoming natural tissues of your clothes are made to welcome me. You seem suddenly strong enough to encompass me, though I am far taller than you. Though, if I could speak to you today, I'd go on a walk with you. I'd draw with you and read curled up with you, I'd play music for you and I'd hold you in my arms and caress you and listen to your cadent, strong voice. If you wanted me to.

You're floating round this house.

Yet I'm no angel.

I cannot bear it. I cannot bear that he gets you- I'm not sure that I want you any more, but it pains me to think that he, the adulterer, has you. You have chosen him, to be deserving of you. It's not fair. I'm clumsy, and you don't like it. I've broken a chair, a spoon and a few wine glasses, that I replaced. I fixed the chair, though it's still cracked. I apologised and meant it. He broke your heart and buys you stupid flowers. I don't know what he says in private. Maybe he apologises and means it, but flowers are not worth that same as your heart. You nag me. I've never heard you nagging him. Why don't I deserve someone I love? Why doesn't anyone ever fall in love with me? Why does a repugnant adulterer with a stupid moustache who vacantly hums about the house get someone, and I don't? What's wrong with me?

I won't settle. You never compromise, but you are willing to compromise on this, maybe because you love him so much. I don't think I could bear that sort of compromise. I certainly couldn't do it without the odd screaming match. That is why I haven't got anyone, coupled with my own fear of trying.

I cannot bear that my role in your life is reduced to that of a spectator of your great love affair. You call me when you need help shifting the bed. I helped him shift it into place. You're renovating your room. Making it new, with him. Forgetting the hours you spent there, sad and recovering, probably. Forgetting the hours you spent with me there too. The hours he spends scraping the foam off the floor are his penance, maybe, for you. You've redone the house. There's an owl made of dough hung where the calendar used to be, with off-centre eyes and misshapen feet. It is disgusting. There's a crack in it, and I hope it falls down soon. There are flowers every day. They wilt, and he replaces them, it seems. There's croque monsieur cheese in the fridge. He comes in and changes everything. He is welcomed back into the community, though not by me.

You move all of my shoes (except for one pair) into my bathroom. You tell me that my bathroom is getting mouldy. You move my coats upstairs. You've got ten, I've got one, now, in the cupboard in the hall. You want to tidy me into a neat little corner and get me out, on occasions, to witness the both of you being together. Proof that he's here, because otherwise you'd think it was all a dream. You are so happy, now. You nag me less and laugh more, because he's here, and I can't bear that this arsehole is enough for you. More than enough. I can't bear that it's so easy for you to replace me. I am jealous and sad, and I want someone. I need to find someone of my own, because then I would be less obsessed. I accept that I cannot change your feelings, and I am sometimes even happy for you. It's just mixed with this awful stake of jealousy that runs through me every time he sings or does something.

I will not speak to him, unless under duress. Today I said, 'aspirateur' as he came down the stairs with one. We ignore each other on our own. I am not going to speak to him at all. Unless forced.