We were sitting in the window, and the sun filled the room. You looked so serious, so sad.
‘I don’t want any more pretty words,’ you said. And you watched me, waiting.
Then I remembered how much I had loved you: so intensely, with such intensity, that it was unreal, or misplaced. I thought there must be something wrong with me, to love so much.
I wanted to tell you, over and over. But you had the laundry to do. I had to take out the bins.
But then I realised it was not that my love was too intense, or some form of projection: it was just love, and I had never felt so much love.
In those early days I wrote you texts, emails, letters, poems, songs. I wanted to sing my love to world.
But you sat down and looked at me and said enough is enough. I don’t want any more pretty words.
So I leant forward and held you, and I held you as tight as I could. I think that’s what you wanted.