Don’t pick apart what I feel for you. No, there has never been anyone before you. But, I am not an emotional *******. I know myself, and my mind. Am capable of recognising what it is I feel. Love you. Kind of. Maybe. By half. I am on the way to love, at least. You vacillate in the doldrums, a land of grey uncertainty, rather than travelling in either direction. I’ll wait. Not forever. It’s like having a part of my body outside of itself. Vulnerable and full of the absence of something divided. Something that was previously mine given to you. I knew love would be hard when it came. Not this sad, or this sort of hard. I expected modest love, and humdrum hard. This is like being the wife of a sailor gone out to sea. Interminable longing and painful waiting. My heart pulls in my chest, the steady drumbeat too loud, loud enough to feel in my fingers, feel in my legs. It tightens in discomfort, and sends me spiralling. I wish I could hold you. I wish I could heal you. But neither is possible without you. And I’m still waiting.