The goodbye letters - Caius
The boys don't write them, so I write them for them. At least I get to think some effort went into the sad, unavoidable parting...
Lisa, I love you so much for your warmth, for the enraptured attention you give me, for the way your eyes smile at me when you see me walking into a room in my nice coat and my even nicer suit, which I know you love the feel of. For the stories you tell me, which are not that interesting but fill the time nicely, for the way you can also shut up and just be. For the fact that you never find me boring or less than a man you admire despite the fact that I know I am not all that, none of us thinks we are all that, but you make me feel I am. You believe I’m strong and I’d protect you and look after you and bring you all you need. I love you for giving me space and not giving me stress. I love you for the way in which you can’t help touching me and flirting with me, enticing me always with some new fantasy. For how you’re creative in the way you move, the way you act even though you don’t create much literature as you should. For the fact that you’re ready to support me, to feed me, lend me money if I would ask. For the emails you send me back or the texts with encouragement. For trying to open up the world, for wanting to be good, for wanting to do right. For being silly and vulnerable and always trying to cover it up and pretending nothing hurts you that much anymore, for being the worst imitation of a cynic there is. For the way you give yourself to me and struggle to leave me be. For not asking anything of me, from me. For all the things you’re dying to tell me, involve me with, share and which I sometime ask you about or give you a chance to tell me and though I tell you can unburden, rest on my shoulder, you never do it because you don’t believe you have a right to ask as I always make sure I don’t tell you I love you, just that I care for you and will always try to be your friend but I know that’s not possible, like all the others we will fall out, your love you say is unconditional is not. It never is. I watch your face, expectantly looking into my pale green eyes which are tired in the morning and not seeing, and I see you wanting to ask, wanting to hear those words and not daring, not having the courage to cause your own pain or a pain that’s deeper than the one you try to keep at bay with your lightness. I love your touch, I love the way you cup my balls as you masturbate or suck me, how you run your fingertips and nails gently over the skin. How when you look up from my cock to my face your face is happy, your face is thankful. How when I reach down and tug at your panties and finally insert my fingers I always find you willing, always wet for me, always wanting me. I love the way you offer me your back, how you let me know when I nudge your pussy in the morning that you want nothing else than my cock fucking you without any fantasy, any drama, any fireworks, you just want me, the cock that’s an extension of me. And you kiss me and after I’ve come you leave me alone but you can’t resist embracing me, kissing me, ruffling my unruly hair gently. I love that you want to eat me, taste me and anything that comes from me. I love that you don’t push the fantasies but you tease them out of me and I surrender to you knowing I’m safe in your hands as you make Caius or Isabel come into our bed. I have not given you any names, another way in which I let you know that you cannot form any deep attachment to me and yet you do. I love the things I always find in my pockets after I leave you. The cards, the chocolates, the many other little surprises you’ve had pleasure in choosing for me. I love you Lisa, I don’t know why I still long for something I had and lost and maintain this distance from you. I can’t explain it. It’s become a habit and I still tell you I don’t want to be hurt again. But I will be because that’s how we all live, hurt gives way to joy and back to hurt and back to joy. Perhaps I don’t trust that you wouldn’t hurt me after all. I cannot know how true to me you would be. But I love you Lisa, I love that you spend time wanting to make me comfortable, excited, inspired. I love that you accept me. That you reach for my hand as we walk together down the street and draw me closer. That you like some of my music though I don’t like most of yours. That you want to dance even when you’re not moving. That I can go and see movies with someone else and you don’t follow me around my Soho haunts. I love that you want to be a homemaker and wear your high heels at the same time. That you’re sophisticated, but your tastes are simple. That you try to not let roots sink too far down into the earth. That you keep hoping to hear words of poetry and song. That you love surprises and promises. That you like houses and travels and you brush away the contradictions. That you slightly look down on people who don’t earn money every day and you slightly worship assholes who just trade cash in the City. I love that this doesn’t make you as they are. I love that you worry you’ve not inspired any film ideas in me or me any story ones in you. I love your skin that always smells like mine, I love your smoothness, your suppleness, your style, the way you put your clothes together. I love your hands that are always moving, your small back and the hips I draw towards me as I push into you. I love that you want to take photos of us, of me, where you want to see me like those actors in b/w, ten feet tall on a screen. I love that you have friends who love you and are there for you, that your colleagues admire you, that you never throw your toys out of the pram. I love that you tell me a lot, but I know you keep your secrets well hidden. I love the way you keep digging away to find our more about me when there’s nothing to find perhaps, but I keep you guessing. I love the way that the morning after you wear your pink top and unsexy slacks or walk around in men’s underpants and a t-shirt and you scrape your hair back in a ponytail and look like you’ve always looked when you’re not trying, when you’re just being you, small and full of energy, whisking me eggs for breakfast. I love that I know you fear hearing me say I’ve started seeing somebody else. I love that I will not be too upset when we part and you’ll try to hide your tears, trying to be all noble and above it, when silence or words will mean the same or nothing at all. I love that you want to climb trees, ride horses and walk all the way along a railway track that crosses an American state and when that ends you’ll head towards the mountains, crossing fields of high wheat bending in the breeze and you think I would go with you. I love that there are no cracks on you though you’ve been broken hearted. I love that you’d be clapping so hard if I won anything and would be ecstatic when I mention you in my thank you speech. I love you for just letting me think I only care for you when it’s not called care, it’s love. I love you for waiting for me to write this and slip it in your handbag for you to read every morning on your way to work. I love you Lisa.
Lisa, I love you so much for your warmth, for the enraptured attention you give me, for the way your eyes smile at me when you see me walking into a room in my nice coat and my even nicer suit, which I know you love the feel of. For the stories you tell me, which are not that interesting but fill the time nicely, for the way you can also shut up and just be. For the fact that you never find me boring or less than a man you admire despite the fact that I know I am not all that, none of us thinks we are all that, but you make me feel I am. You believe I’m strong and I’d protect you and look after you and bring you all you need. I love you for giving me space and not giving me stress. I love you for the way in which you can’t help touching me and flirting with me, enticing me always with some new fantasy. For how you’re creative in the way you move, the way you act even though you don’t create much literature as you should. For the fact that you’re ready to support me, to feed me, lend me money if I would ask. For the emails you send me back or the texts with encouragement. For trying to open up the world, for wanting to be good, for wanting to do right. For being silly and vulnerable and always trying to cover it up and pretending nothing hurts you that much anymore, for being the worst imitation of a cynic there is. For the way you give yourself to me and struggle to leave me be. For not asking anything of me, from me. For all the things you’re dying to tell me, involve me with, share and which I sometime ask you about or give you a chance to tell me and though I tell you can unburden, rest on my shoulder, you never do it because you don’t believe you have a right to ask as I always make sure I don’t tell you I love you, just that I care for you and will always try to be your friend but I know that’s not possible, like all the others we will fall out, your love you say is unconditional is not. It never is. I watch your face, expectantly looking into my pale green eyes which are tired in the morning and not seeing, and I see you wanting to ask, wanting to hear those words and not daring, not having the courage to cause your own pain or a pain that’s deeper than the one you try to keep at bay with your lightness. I love your touch, I love the way you cup my balls as you masturbate or suck me, how you run your fingertips and nails gently over the skin. How when you look up from my cock to my face your face is happy, your face is thankful. How when I reach down and tug at your panties and finally insert my fingers I always find you willing, always wet for me, always wanting me. I love the way you offer me your back, how you let me know when I nudge your pussy in the morning that you want nothing else than my cock fucking you without any fantasy, any drama, any fireworks, you just want me, the cock that’s an extension of me. And you kiss me and after I’ve come you leave me alone but you can’t resist embracing me, kissing me, ruffling my unruly hair gently. I love that you want to eat me, taste me and anything that comes from me. I love that you don’t push the fantasies but you tease them out of me and I surrender to you knowing I’m safe in your hands as you make Caius or Isabel come into our bed. I have not given you any names, another way in which I let you know that you cannot form any deep attachment to me and yet you do. I love the things I always find in my pockets after I leave you. The cards, the chocolates, the many other little surprises you’ve had pleasure in choosing for me. I love you Lisa, I don’t know why I still long for something I had and lost and maintain this distance from you. I can’t explain it. It’s become a habit and I still tell you I don’t want to be hurt again. But I will be because that’s how we all live, hurt gives way to joy and back to hurt and back to joy. Perhaps I don’t trust that you wouldn’t hurt me after all. I cannot know how true to me you would be. But I love you Lisa, I love that you spend time wanting to make me comfortable, excited, inspired. I love that you accept me. That you reach for my hand as we walk together down the street and draw me closer. That you like some of my music though I don’t like most of yours. That you want to dance even when you’re not moving. That I can go and see movies with someone else and you don’t follow me around my Soho haunts. I love that you want to be a homemaker and wear your high heels at the same time. That you’re sophisticated, but your tastes are simple. That you try to not let roots sink too far down into the earth. That you keep hoping to hear words of poetry and song. That you love surprises and promises. That you like houses and travels and you brush away the contradictions. That you slightly look down on people who don’t earn money every day and you slightly worship assholes who just trade cash in the City. I love that this doesn’t make you as they are. I love that you worry you’ve not inspired any film ideas in me or me any story ones in you. I love your skin that always smells like mine, I love your smoothness, your suppleness, your style, the way you put your clothes together. I love your hands that are always moving, your small back and the hips I draw towards me as I push into you. I love that you want to take photos of us, of me, where you want to see me like those actors in b/w, ten feet tall on a screen. I love that you have friends who love you and are there for you, that your colleagues admire you, that you never throw your toys out of the pram. I love that you tell me a lot, but I know you keep your secrets well hidden. I love the way you keep digging away to find our more about me when there’s nothing to find perhaps, but I keep you guessing. I love the way that the morning after you wear your pink top and unsexy slacks or walk around in men’s underpants and a t-shirt and you scrape your hair back in a ponytail and look like you’ve always looked when you’re not trying, when you’re just being you, small and full of energy, whisking me eggs for breakfast. I love that I know you fear hearing me say I’ve started seeing somebody else. I love that I will not be too upset when we part and you’ll try to hide your tears, trying to be all noble and above it, when silence or words will mean the same or nothing at all. I love that you want to climb trees, ride horses and walk all the way along a railway track that crosses an American state and when that ends you’ll head towards the mountains, crossing fields of high wheat bending in the breeze and you think I would go with you. I love that there are no cracks on you though you’ve been broken hearted. I love that you’d be clapping so hard if I won anything and would be ecstatic when I mention you in my thank you speech. I love you for just letting me think I only care for you when it’s not called care, it’s love. I love you for waiting for me to write this and slip it in your handbag for you to read every morning on your way to work. I love you Lisa.
posted by Lisa Taylor at 6:35 AM
1 Comments:
At all?
Post a Comment
<< Home