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.