I love the way you look. You are like art, moving.
In the chemical cocktail we call life, you are the cherry that so beautifully crowns it.
How many times I have been driven to distraction just by looking at you, and driven to unreasonable desire and fantasy by touching you, by even being in your presence.
In quiet and reflective moments I think I share you with the world; everyone loves beauty. You are such a stunner.
It still astounds me that you love me so much. Once, you said you never wanted to stop kissing me, and in the hundreds of photos from that day to this, you never have. You have tucked yourself into my life and you treat me like I’m a god. There isn’t anything you won’t do for me. Our life together has been a wild ride of passion, of displays of affection, of a thousand thoughtful gestures. I am the handbag your heart keeps its love in.
You probably don’t remember this but six months ago when we went to the cafe, all heads turned when you entered. I think it’s true; you don’t walk into a place, you enter. It’s been like that since you were a small child, uncommonly beautiful.
Because you probably don’t remember that, you probably don’t remember the woman who served us. She wasn’t beautiful, not in the accepted sense, but there was something about her. I thought she was attractive. You were awful to her. Dismissive. Demeaning. I’d never noticed you do anything like that before, probably because I have been in the grip of limerance – infatuated love. Once I noticed it, however, I couldn’t stop noticing it.
It bothered me, so much so that later that week when you were off being beautiful for the camera, I found myself back in that cafe. I didn’t want to go there; I wanted to be anywhere except there, but no matter where my mind wanted to take me my feet kept turning me back. I found that woman and I spoke to her, failing miserably to make my point because I was so confused and tongue tied. She didn’t remember what you’d said or how you spoke to her. She did remember your beauty, though. She said I was a lucky man to have someone as beautiful as you. It made me smile. How often I’ve heard that said. How often I’ve thought it myself.
Most people will forgive you anything if you’re beautiful enough. I know that just by the act of being with you I’m treated more specially and forgiven more often than at any other time I can recall. So, she forgave you.
She forgave you. I, however, cannot. The portrait of you I once had in my mind now looks as if coffee was thrown at it, and it’s washed away some of the beauty to reveal the demon’s skull lurking underneath. I realised the truth in the saying that no matter how beautiful you are, if you’re ugly inside, then you’re ugly.
I don’t love you anymore. In hindsight, I think I never did. I was pleased with myself, flattered, honoured even that someone like you would choose someone like me. Remember that movie we watched with the beautiful woman and the guy who said to his friends that somewhere in the world there was a guy who was tired of fucking her? I realised I’m that guy and you’re that girl. The spell is broken; the mask has been torn off.
I owe that woman in the cafe a debt of gratitude I can’t repay. She doesn’t even know she was an angel for me, there to keep me safe when I was in real danger of losing my soul. She’s married with kids, so your mind can be at rest from your venomous thoughts that I’m kicking the traces off you so that I can throw them over her. She probably barely registers my existence outside of another customer served, another coffee poured. I am not running to her; I am running from you.