E. E. *******’s “I like my body when it is with your body”. On completion of the reading, I noticed that there is a type of love. Foreign and inaudible to me.
And never have I been loved as such.
He wrote about her. What a treat, to be with someone I inspire so much that he would write such careful words about me.
What is sad?
That I have loved in a similar way. Writing, expressing your beauties.
What is sad?
In turn, I have never been loved and written of. Never felt it. And so I hope someday I am with a someone who not only loves me openly, but secretly, in solitude, with a pen and paper.