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.