Love letter # 154
How much I have not wanted to write this letter. How long I have delayed it. Turned it over in my head – in my gut. But alas, I feel that I need to say this: I can no longer continue. I do trust you. I feel that you toy with my feelings – enjoy the dumb, supplicant fact of them – but that you do not, never have and never will, reciprocate.
Naturally, you are allowed not to feel. This I have no issue with, much as it cuts me. My issue is with your behaviour – or rather, my reaction to it.
No more will I sit there, my affections being milked by you for whatever gratification this gives you. No longer will I rise in stupid hope to be slapped by the slamming door. It is a torment I am now refusing to bear on behalf of my absurd, hormonal optimism.
When you flash your smile – your eyes, your cleavage – I will no longer go to water. Because I will not be there to see it.
I am certain you will think me ridiculous in this but I would rather imagine that acerbic snarl of yours than stumble again into the honey trap you so beautifully set for me.
I stand ready to offer you all the love in the world – but if you will not receive it I will neither force it upon you nor suffer your teasing delight at my reflexive adoration.
Maybe you have not set out to beguile and fool me at all. Perhaps it is I to whom all the folly belongs. Makes no difference in the end. I cannot stand your loveliness – the way it hovers so near and then withdraws at the merest touch.
If I was made of stronger stuff I would most likely tough it out – but I am made of longing and impossible hunger – and I will not inflict the spectacle of my pathetic starvation on either of us.
Au revoir, my love. You are wonderful. Far too wonderful for me.