I love, love, love XXXX. I woke up sometime in the middle of the night last night with his arms wrapped around me and his body keeping mine warm. I had a profound sense of happiness, warmth, and rightness. I feel blessed to be coupled with someone who cares for me so much, and who allows me to reciprocate.
It took me time to find my place with him, after a few years of wanting I wasn’t sure whether I was that bothered by him, but after months of being in a relationship I realised there was little more that I could ask for. (This sounds terribly like a eulogy but fear not).
Today he had gone to uni, and I was cleaning the kitchen. I admit I read a few pages of his notebook. In it, he wrote about his thoughts and daily happenings in such a thoughtful and gentle way. Not goofy, not silly, not loud, but him when he is comfortable or sad or at the end of the day before he falls asleep and he mutters “I love you” into my arm.
Today we woke late - no exercise this morning - and fumbled around having bleary morning sex and introducing each other to the world. We ate breakfast together. I love to see how, when I change my morning routine, he often subconsciously follows. Strawberries, banana, yoghurt, and Brits. We studied together and later, after we had returned from our respective happenings, we drove to the rowing club and ran together, complimenting one another on speed.
Support, in such a simple way, is godly. I love him and his patchy beard and his gorgeous smile and his beautiful face. Also his silly mannerisms and the way he holds me and when he goes quiet. Xxxx, xxxx, xxxx.
I consider whether I should one day marry him, because he probably will have wealth, and I probably will not. I consider a friend’s remarks that, even though I haven’t considered it, we will probably marry. “Maybe not marry, maybe just, y’know, end up being together forever”. Maybe so. I consider these words, these ideals, and I know then, that I will settle. I know that, if at my young age, I think about these things, that then I am a person of a particular way and that I will settle. I consider buying a house in the next two years. I know that I love him; I know who I am.
You don’t put poetry in my heart, but there’s happiness in my eyes and I’d never ask you for more. I love you.
Saintly.
I miss lying between your legs with my cheek on your stomach.
I miss you, I think. Giver of words and of breath.
I was never ashamed of my words when you were around.
May I?
Contentedness feels refreshing after a few weeks of turbulence and aggressive misery. Now, I sit and listen to soft music, reading Vogue (which I have spurned for roughly four months, unsure why), speaking to an ex-girlfriend, subtly navigating the difficult arena of successfully transitioning from romantic to platonic love, with lightly glossed nails, and the knowledge that tonight I will lie in a cool room with Alex’s warm arms around me.
I have lost my appetite, which I relish, but nevertheless am working my way through the mountain of chocolate which I received as Christmas gifts. Too, I got some new keshi pearl earrings, and beautiful underwear and bras, a Baudrillard book, and some beautiful red leather shoes. Spoils, spoils.
