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?