I came home after watching you walk out of the cafe like last time. Itís not getting any easier to let you go.
Not that Iíd ever dare holding you back, but part of me still wishes I could.
These past few days with you have been lovely. No, lovely is the wrong word.
Theyíve been wonderful.
Is wonderful even enough? My vocabulary seems strangely limited at the moment.
Iíd have been happy to do like during your first visit and simply meet you every day for a couple of hours or whatever we could have. Just being with you, sitting in the park or in a cafe, chatting, laughing together, all of that is already ñ lovely, wonderful, a dozen other things. But itís nothing compared to how I felt when I found you at my door Sunday afternoon with your travel bag over your shoulder.
I wanted to ask what happened with your family to make you seek refuge with me, but I suppose I already know. Youíve made it clear that their disapproval about your choice of career is both vocal and ongoing, and I didnít want to twist that knife a little more when I could see on your face just how tired, how hurt you were. Just know that, should you wish to talk about it, Iíll always be here to listen.
You have no idea just how much I wanted to call in sick for the week, knowing youíd be in my home when I was supposed to be at school. If I could have been sure my students would be taken care of in my absence, I would have done it. Unfortunately, weíre short on both teachers and substitutes, and as I told you, I didnít feel right requesting a leave on such short notice. You said it was fine, and I think you meant it, but would you have told me if it had bothered you? I hope so.
I usually stay at school for a little while after the day ends, but this week I think I waited for the final bell with more impatience than my students. Coming home when I knew youíd be there, waiting for me, wasÖ again, what comes to mind is lovely and wonderful. I havenít lived alone for very long, but I must have been lonely, more so than I realized. Coming home when I knew Iíd have someone to cook dinner for, someone to eat with, someone with whom to go out and sit in the yard to talk as night fell on us, even someone in the house with me at nightÖ It felt special. Very special.
Or maybe it was special because it was you.
You must be wondering by now if I found the letter you left here or not, as I havenít mentioned it so far. I did find it, Angel dear. And read it. And read it again. I think Iíve read it five times already, or maybe six. And every time I do, itís the same fire burning inside me, the same need to tell you, yes. To all that, yes.
Yes I too wanted more than a kiss on that last night we spent under the same roof.
Yes I too wondered whether sharing more than a kiss would be for the best.
Yes you were the first person I ever kissed ñ and if Iím completely honest, the first one I ever truly wanted to kiss.
Yes you were the first person I touched, and as innocent as these touches remained, I still feel as though my fingers are burning from the memory of your warmth.
Yes that night when I went to bed I tried to imagine what it would have felt like to touch your actual skin. I wondered about how smooth it would be. I wondered about scars, as you have mentioned them. I wondered if youíd let me caress or kiss them, or whether youíd prefer to hide them from me. I wondered about your hands on me too, and whether the first touch from your fingers might be the one to make me come undone.
I wondered, and I imagined, and I hoped. And now, your letter makes me yearn a little more for your next leave, if that was even possible.
I hope youíll want to stay with me again. I hope thereíll be more kisses for us to share. And more than kisses, too.
There is much more Iíd like to say, but I donít know if theyíre words youíd care to read.
Just know that I remain,