I can't tell if anything has changed. Maybe nothing has, maybe that's okay. Maybe things don't always have to change.
P never said "I love you" once in these three weeks. Definitely counts as not changing. The only change is I didn't bring it up.
I know he loves me. He shows me. Once when I said it, he said "If only I could believe that."
I wonder if he really doesn't know. I guess it's a riff on the old questions: what is the worth of words, what are the relationships between words and the things they purport to represent.
I know I can only go by what I see and hear, and I feel I am getting half the picture. I see him in action, but he doesn't' share the state of his brain. Am I asking too much? I wonder.
We had so much fun the last night I was there. We were like kids with no worries. But these times of fun and ease seem less frequent.
Actually I don't know how we have so much pleasure together. He and I have such different tastes. We had a Mediterranean day for me, an Alps day for him, and although I feel we could appreciate the other's pleasure, it's not what we would choose. I like everyday life with him. I like a dinner, a walk after dinner, a tea after the walk. I like sitting crammed on his little couch reading, breaking to make love, or something lazy and pleasant as a blowjob, and I love our sleeping dance as we roll into eachother as the night gets cold, and move way to the rhythm of our overheating bodies, until an equilibrium is found, where maybe an arm or a foot sticks out form under the comforter, it's opposing mate rests lightly on th lover's skin. Fingers curl on a ribcage, toes find the arch of the other's foot. Sometimes I awake and stroke his hair, sometimes I awake ot feel him petting my belly.
And I like travel with him, although he typically angers me deeply at some point, as I am quite sure I do him. But when it's right, it's a waking version of our nocturnal dance:just two tourists wandering apart too look at a boat, a tree, a cliff, coming together to touch hands, he throws an arm across my shoulders, or i tuck myself into his arm, or if its cold into his pockets. His pockets seem as good a place for cold hands as mine, mostly.
Is it the real turtle soup" or merely the mock? is it a fancy, not worth thinking of, or is ti at long last love?"
Who is he, this silent sarrazin stoic yet whiner, tough yet with a crab's soft inside (or an oyster's) endless appetite, yet without any apparently need. What is his hunger and am I his satiety?