Modern Romance

I've been travelling a lot and getting a bit wistful of late ... ;)

Some words about words and love, and my love for them

See, what I really want to do now (and often) is to write to my lover.

But I don’t know who my lover is, so I do not know what to say.

Of course I chase around so eagerly hoping it will be you? or you? maybe you? you’ll do. Someone to aim at, to keep in my heart while I am thinking. While I am dreaming. While I am away and alone.

What I want to do is write to you. I want to unload my thoughts, my hopes and dreams, my heart. Not so that you will feel the burden of replying, but so that i can speak - which is so much more than just thinking.

I want to tell you about the walk I took today around the whole of the island. How I found a swimming spot in time for sundown again. I want to tell you how I jumped when I drifted into the seaweed. The difference in the sand between here and there.

But you are not my lover. You were not listening before or even now. You cannot relate these tales to those others or hear those to come and relate them to these.

To be my lover you must have longevity, you must endure. You must welcome my messages, even if your don’t read them line for line for they are long and numerous, detailed beyond necessity:

• the endlessness of the european lovers on shore-sunk swings
• the pink of the nails and the fakeness of the eyelashes of the american-asian (mixed) girls on the boat, and the young Lucy-a-like enchanting all with her window-seat splashing
• pointless musings on the relative expense of western-oriented vs locals eating places, and whether I should be welcome in the latter
• imagine my relief when my Dad had the tax money all along - LOL.

These words are nothing to you. Or you. My sequences of sentences are lost, wasted, hurled into the abyss, for you are not my lover.

Nor can I sit here crafting tender interludes between the facts:

• admissions that I daydreamed I was holding your hand on the beach
• that I wished your face had sat across from me at the pool, and not the face of my book
• how I am smiling gently as I remember how I could still smell you in the room after you left that day
• that the thing you said still hurts but I never told you until now
• how I wished I had greeted you, with a smile, with my eyes, when you came. Or when I did.

These words have no place in my message. No target to aim at. No heart to receive them. Yet still they come?

If you are not my lover, I guess I must be my own.