This is not a love letter

I cannot say if I love you, even though I speak the words. Perhaps I am simply obsessed, searching for validation. Maybe I want to control you, to somehow force your attentions and affectations onto me. Or this could be primal, the grind of genetic impulse overriding all objections, doing whatever it can to convince the conscious faculties that this tide of feeling is a four letter word. Then there is the fantasy, cultural and personal, of the great romance and the expectations that come with it.

How do I untangle what I feel from this mess? What does it mean to feel? I realise I could simply say the words over and over, performing the usual rituals, and that, from there, a kind of momentum would ensue, sweeping us both along until…

Yet, I falter; not for a want of desire or tenderness but because I cannot honestly promise what is not within my purview to give. However, what I can say is that my hesitation shows me something – that I care enough to doubt and, in turn, to be honest about it. I do not know if this is enough, but it is everything I have.         





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