My beautiful, beautiful creature,
I feel... Exhausted. Absolutely shattered. My head is slightly wobbly, but that's perhaps because I woke up at 4, decided that it's not worth going back to sleep at about 6, got up and made a cake. That's perhaps because I've been worried out of my head - I keep imagining that I can't breathe, or my lungs are gurgling, and then I think that I'm dying. That's perhaps because I keep checking things - a weird sensation as if there was something in my neck; I had this for years, and there's nothing there, ever. I'm a hipochondriac and that's about it.
But it's a recent development. I've dug deep and realised that it's because I'm affraid to die - not because of death itself, but because I feel like I just started to actually live.
I've told you too much today. Too many sad things. The truth is that I don't want you to think about any of that at all. Ever.
Some things, important things, additional and at the same time absolutely unnecessary things got lost in my shivering - I just couldn't stop it. I couldn't get the right words out. I could've told you so much more, but it's not important right now. Or maybe it is.
See, when my mom asked me why I broke up with my first boyfriend, I told her what happened - for some reason I felt like I had to. How he scooped me up, an absolute crying, weeping mess, how he put me on the bed, how I saw myself from the ceiling, and that - that was my first time. Everything. Then I was called a whore and assaulted with a barrage of flying pregnancy tests.
Within the next 5 minutes everyone in the house knew. I had nowhere to go.
I had - have? - absolutely no value.
I've been a 'whore' from a pretty young age. Now I'm still a 'whore', everytime I see her. Still. After years and years.
God I love seeing you happy.
I am so... Dizzy. From exhaustion, from today, from the knowledge that your 'scarf' sits in my bag. I've washed my hands, I washed dishes, vegetables, things, but your scent is stuck to my palms. It just is, and there's nothing I can do about it. And I sniff them from time to time. And smile to myself. And god this must look weird.
But we are weird.
How can we not be?
What I drag around in that snail-like head of mine is nothing compared to weight on your shoulders, on your heart. I can't complain for my stupid choices. You, however... You need to be wrapped in warm things, in soft things, in things that smell of apples and salted caramel, in things that make you want to curl up in a warm spot with a smile, and rub your feet together.
You told me you don't see a beautiful creature when you look in the mirror.
Then start fucking looking.
Because I see a man who's burdened by incredible sadness, but loves his cats unlike anything. A man who had to destroy many things during his life, but spends his evenings creating - drawing these detailed, imaginative illustrations which bring joy to the ones who need it. A man who grows flowers, year after year, and probably finds solace in their seasonal fragility. And you might say that you don't care about your job, but you do. I know you do. I see you - when you talk about some of the cases you deal with, some of the people... Your face gives you away, dear.
Not to mention that you're incredibly handsome.
Start fucking looking.
Because I see a face I can't help but want to touch. A neck I want to run my lips over. A chest I want to sink into.
And I know it's wrong. But for this one second... I don't care.
And I'll stay in it - this evening, tonight. With my weird descriptions of romance in this absolutely unweildy language. I think I can hear Shakespeare rolling in his grave.
You said that I'm kind. Generous. You are that, too. I think we have no other choice. At least I don't. Falling into the dark - becoming the dark, the mean, the cold - would mean that I lost the war. That people like we lost. It would mean that there's nothing to fight, nothing to live for anymore.
- - - I hum to myself, for the millionth time in my lifetime.
And that used to give me hope.
You give me hope. Now.