I could sit before you and use beautiful words and rhyme to tell you how I feel. How I fell.
But that would be a futile attempt, because you never took the time to understand my heart, you understood my skin. Everything that looked pretty, but nothing that felt it, sounded it or lived it.
My eyes? Perfect.
My smile? Perfect.
My shape, stature, hair, epidermis art work? Perfect.
My heart, mind and soul were secondary, and when I asked you to learn them, to understand and study them... it was all "too much" for you, you weren't ready for love.
Yet, you were ready to paint a picture of a life with me. I can be your wife and you could have kids with me. All because your eyes liked the way they felt when they gazed upon me. But taking the time to learn my mind was a chore, clutter that needed clearing out that you could not get to just yet.
Maybe one day, you said, as though my mind could hold off and my heart could pause its affection like we were half way through a movie and needed a moment to grab a bite, as though my skin would wait for you to run your fingers upon it again to resume its aging.
You touch was stimulating, only half as much as your words, thoughts, ideas and dreams. I knew them all. I KNOW them all. I could recite them, because I listened, took them on board and you achieving your dreams became one of mine. Maybe I wasn't listening intently enough, I didn't realise none of these dreams involved me.
I wasn't listening when you were painting a picture of life with me, it was with my body, not my heart, not my soul and not my dreams. You heard the parts of me that best suited you and your needs, the parts of me deemed desirable. I heard every part of you, even the parts that should have made me hate you. Even now this part, the shallow, relentless, unloving-me part.
And yet, I love you still.
Maybe one day I will be old and withered, but my soul, heart and mind still beautiful, and you will be there telling me how you achieved all of your dreams. And in knowing that, I will have achieved one of mine.