Is what I've been doing, thinking of you for two weeks on Parisian streets. Whispering to myself (late at night, when nobody else is in sight) that I adore you, darling, and you're beautiful and I hope you're well.
You're worried about H again. Your back aches. I came up to see you (you made me smile) and drank tea, and what I really wanted to do was just put my arms around you and stroke you. I want to wake up in the morning with the softness of your skin next to me, and caress you. You deserve to be woken up by caresses.
You said you would try to be 'discret' with me and V, in the sense of unobtrusive. Oh darling, please don't. You're still the main person in my life at the moment, so there's no need to be. You're not easily replaced. There's no need. I couldn't say that without it all coming out, so I just said, 'non, pas du tout' and smiled at you.
I thought maybe I'd have knocked this feeling on the head. But I can't, dear. When I saw you again, I just wanted to hold you and touch you and make you feel so good. Maybe tomorrow. I want to lean over and kiss you, I want to tell you how much it means to faire des bisous each night, how much it means to just be chatting to you, calmly and quietly. How much you mean to me. And you mean an awful lot. J'ai soif de toi. That's what I won't tell you tomorrow.
You bring me back cigarettes and a lighter and tell me the things that made you think of me. You thought of me. I think of you, often. I need a way of telling you you're important to me whilst not scaring you with this passion. I am looking out for other people, but the problem is qu'elles n'arrivent pas a ta cheville.
Tomorrow we'll eat together and relax, and I'll smoke (you probably will too) and you'll sort your things and I will offer to massage your back at some point. And I'll recite Les Aveugles for you. Let me let me let me faire ce qui te rends heureuse.
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