I’m sorry I can’t love you.
I know you see it. Piece by piece you see it falling together. Suddenly I’ll be a little bit more flowery. Blooming, under your attention. Petals as silky as the skin beneath my breasts, that your fingers grazed that time your cold hands found warmth under my shirt, and your voice dropped an octive when you said “damn, your skin is so soft” into that place where you think your mouth fits perfectly against my neck below my ear. .
I know by the way your hands clutch mine that you want to pour love into me, the love that your ex didn’t, couldn’t take. I know because you text me everyday.
You ask everyday. You actively care about me. I care about you too. But not exactly with that intention. You are complex, and yet you like the simple function of things that work, you like luxury only in what reminds you of your time in the army, where your hard angles were squared off, now they are even. You’re ambitious and self sufficiant. You are a loner. For the most part.
Honeslty, it’s not enough.
I don’t want to push you against a wall and use my words and hands to break you open and put you back together. And, I so badly need to tear something apart to see how it works, and to put it back together to work.
That is part of love, at least the love I want right now.
Instead, you’re shelter. Not a home. Not the land I build on. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this. So instead, I send ripples out into the world and you receive the waves.
I can’t love you. I’m sorry you thought that maybe one day with enough patience you could love me.
