Letters to Robert

Letters. Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash

Dear Robert, since I first met you, I think you’ve made me better, just like love makes people: more focus, more happy, more vibrant, more eager to grow better.

I know it is highly likely, by the nature of our relationship, that you will not love he as I do. There’s four people that look at the world the way I do. But there’s something about the way that you are that simply makes me unable to take my eyes off of you.

I hope you would tell me openly what it is you. Dare I say, what drives you?

I also hope that you would tell me you don’t love, were that to be the case, so maybe we could grow to be friends. I feel way past the childish love-play.

I happen to know what I feel; what do you?

Tonight I sit on my bed and wonder: am I doing something wrong by feeling what I feel about you? I don’t know yet I am heavy that it might.

On the one hand, I am more vibrant, but on the other side, I am fragile. Like a colorful crystal sphere.

Why do people love people?
Why do I want to be small?
Why do I fear regret?
Why do I feel regret?

My love to you, Robert, is much more a testimonial of my emotional short-comings that it is of your personal qualities. That is clear to me. Yet, what can I do but keep on, loving you?

I don’t know, once again.

Maybe, I’ll forget you.
Maybe, I’ll die by yours.
Maybe, I’ll die only by mine, awaiting of you, or some other Robert.

I want to shout that I love you, but then again, I do not like lying. Over the past few days I’ve gained the ability to articulate it: I want to feel loved.

I do not want you to love me, nor do I really love you; you’re an excuse.

I want you to hug me.
I want you to hold me in your arms.
I want to have you in me.
I want to kiss your lips.
I want to always be at the sight of your pretty face, telling me that you love me.

But I do not care about your arms, your lips or your voice. I do not need to. Always, that I see you, Robert, you are me. And it is weird to know this, because as I await patiently for your conversation, I know I don’t, deeply, feel anything for you, rather the image of you.

Robert, who you are, I don’t love. But if you loved me, would that tach me to love myself?

It’s not at all what I feel for you, but what I don’t feel for me.

The more I became aware of this, the more these feelings of mine intensify. My delirium for you roars louder and louder and I feel your skin rubbing with mine; I feel your lips entrencehd with mine, and i feel my arms pushing your naked body against mine. All along, Robert, I can’t say with any certainty how you look like. You become generic; a symbol.

What do you represent?
What is your abstraction?
What surfaces from you? Love. Desire.

You’re not the object-of-desire, no, you’re supposed to be the one who, finally, desired me.

All this crazy “love” I feel for you, and the image of you, living a life with me, showcase a you that holds dear all that I am insecure of; a representation of what I wish to do.

And yes, I feel a bit of envy of the Robert in my dreams. What can he see in me that I cannot?

I love onto you with excess because I do so with dearth onto myself.

I feel for you everything I wish I could feel for myself.

Today I thought of something. It goes like this:

I love you.

I really do.

What is it I’m wrong to think that this couldn’t be love? What if my rationalization is, rather, an over-rationalization? What if I’m not conditioned by my lack of self-love to feel genuine love? What if it’s all been wrong, except you?

What if I just like thinking I can’t feel love because I like to feel different? What if I explain my love away because accepting it would mean doing something about it?

What if It’s easier to call it no-love than telling you I love you?

If I knew all this, I would I tell you that I love you?

Not a single day has passed since we first met where I haven’t written about you and, to some extent, to you.

I do not know what you mean to me. You’re very much categorical nature makes it hard for me to decipher the specifics of you. To be fair, and perhaps to your surprise, I have close to no expectations about you. Or, in other words, you could be whatever.

I do not know or care what it is that might be of me in relation to you: the “us.” Perhaps you’re just as complex, and we might then find common ground. Maybe you’re not meant for me at all. Maybe I am not meant for you. And who’s to loose by realizing this? No one.

I still not give up on what you have meant for me. Feelings have nod beyond existence, and I choose to listen. Why is is that we, so often, prefer the silence? What might we be?

Will you be one make me company as San Francisco welcomes me? Will we wander Barcelona together? Will you kiss me inadvertently on the streets of Manchester? I do not know since I cannot see what might be ahead for us anymore than your face without the blond fold of love. But let us, yet, find out.

Ever since I met you, rob, there isn’t been a single day where I haven’t written of you, there isn’t been a pair of hours where I haven’t thought of you. But when I think of you what do I think about? What is you? What is it that you mean to me? What Is it that means you to me?

I haven’t enough data to answer that question, but data needn’t be in the need, now that feeling is around.

You’re a target I’ve been meaning to hit, yes, but not a single target is special, rather where the arrow lands is in relation to the center. Is it you, you; or is it you, the aim? In a sense, a given interaction dwarfs in importance to the nature of the interactions. What I mean, maybe, is that I love you. What I might mean is that, I love loving you.

There’s still time.

It’s been four days since the last time we talked, and more than a week since the last time I was anywhere near you, and the image of you has blurred into a weirdly crisp version of your face. You make sense Robert, but only because nothing else does.

If you loved me, and you told me so, would I like it? I think a lot about this. My relationship to love is anything but simple. I wouldn’t blame my parents, but their figure stands tall every time I think of loving and, more precisely, being loved. I can’t fathom anybody who would love me, yet I try to be that person all the time. That might be why it’s been so relieving to love you; I haven’t felt the pressure of loving me for I have been busy loving you.

Robert, I think you’re sweet and I believe you are a rather pure sort of individual. I would’t hate being around you for plenty of years. But I barely get a grasp of what love means. It might be that all this feeling you’ve brought is very much it and I have been blind to it, or it might be just a shadow of love. The point is that I don’t know, and from that I can’t but conclude that it is early for any “us”, with you or with any. But I also think, what if I’m thinking a bit too much and I needn’t give a fuck?

I’ve written a lot and I’ve felt a lot, yet, Rob, I expect not for you to read any of this since, despite I wrote because of you, I didn’t write for you. I just wish someone, somewhere, realizes there’s some of us who love like they do.

I’ve tried to stop thinking, but I’ve always found myself thinking too much about it.

Nonetheless, I feel no hurry. Life goes and has been going, and if I die with your face spanning decades in my memories, so be it. And if I die with you having only been there a month or so, so be it.

Your eyes.




About wicked people, from one of them

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Felipe Acosta

Felipe Acosta

Writing stories; code, literature.

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