“I am not always thinking sweetly of you. I am thinking angrily or indignantly or sulkily, quite often, but I am never not thinking of you. More often than not I am just worried about you, concerned and distressed about my baby lamb being tired or unhappy–and of course often it is with mad, mad passion and sometimes it is naughty, sometimes, only sometimes is it dirty or even sadistic. You are all over me, in sorrow or in joy, all of the time – Oh yes in drunkenness too, in conversation, in work, with every breath and heart-beat.” 

 

—	Laurence Olivier, from a letter to Vivien Leigh

and we're back to hell

The fleeting touches, the lingering kisses... It all seems so far away now; as if it was all just a long, beautiful dream. Did I really fall asleep in your arms those nights? Now that I'm thousands of miles away from you, it all seemed so surreal.

But it must've happened. Otherwise I wouldn't feel so empty right now, alone in my room, crying for the hundredth time since I left you two days ago. I wouldn't feel as if there is a gaping wound in my chest, aching to be whole again. I can never fathom how we can be so forcefully and helplessly separated when we love each other as we do. How is it possible that there is nothing to be done? I hate it. I hate not being close to you, I hate not being able to touch you when I want to, I hate that you're not here to kiss and hug me when I'm weeping my eyes out.

I don't know how I'm going to get through this this time.

untitled

To be wrapped in you again,

To be able to breathe the same air

You breathe.

I can touch you with my hands.

My lips cannot stop kissing you.

The world is drunken and spinning.

And so are we.

possessions

kiss the ellipsis that hangs on the edge

of my lips.

swallow the universe

in my mouth.

your hands are soft around my neck

and I know that

you are mine.

you are mine, you are mine, you are mine.

dear you,

I’m not making this up, or trying to be romantic, or poetic. Whenever we fight, or to put it more accurately, whenever I fight with you, my heart tightens up and my lungs feel like they’re about to dissolve into foam. It sounds poetic and beautiful, but it really does happen. Maybe that’s what being broken hearted feels like. I don’t know.

But I do know that I’m a monster in arguments and I can be a bitch sometimes. I know that I can turn extremely hard and cold but if you only touched me with your fingertips I would collapse into a shameful, pathetic sobbing mess that would sometimes last for hours. I would cry so much I wouldn’t be able to breathe and start to hyperventilate. But you know that already; you’ve seen it all before.

Nabokov wrote, “Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.” And I am. I am exasperation and I am torture and I don’t know why you love me. And you do make me happy. Just because I get sad sometimes doesn’t mean that you’ve failed in making me happy; in fact, I’m a lot happier than I was before I met you. So stop beating yourself up whenever I get sad.

You’ve made me happier than I ever was, or ever will be. And I love you.