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.