You

You look very beautiful. Men are usually described as being handsome, not beautiful. And if they are described as beautiful, it refers to their qualities which can be understood to be beautiful. But, I think you’re beautiful, especially when you’re sitting by the window sill and the soft rays of sunlight fall on your forehead, lightly grazing your right cheek. Your usually dark black curly hair feels like it’s now been painted brown. When you flick it, it becomes even lighter. The view is arresting.

You’re sitting there, reading the day’s newspaper. You look engrossed, did something ghastly happen? It’s the news, I am sure something did. You’re completely unaware that I don’t love you anymore. It’s a relief, but I am also washed over by a wave of incredible sadness. No, don’t look up and smile at me. It makes me weak. I need to be able to tell you that I don’t want to be with you anymore. No, no. It’s not you, obviously. It’s just that I am incapable of loving you. Or anyone, really.

You’re taking a sip of the coffee, it’s too hot, you sip and spit some out. You have always done that. Just wait a couple of seconds before taking a sip. I’ve told you so many times, you never listen. You’re taking another sip and you gulp it down. See? It really was a matter of a few seconds. You’re looking at me again. I will look away, I don’t want you to think I am weird. Well, you probably already think that don’t you. And yet, you love me. So much.

The kitchen sink is full of unwashed dishes, you loved last night’s dinner, but you didn’t wash the dishes like you said you would. You never do. The television is on, but you’re not watching it. The microwave is still beeping. A few of your dirty socks are lying around the living room. I wish I could burn it all, along with that damp towel lying on the bedroom floor, right outside of our en-suite. I imagine a big bonfire in the middle of our living room, with all your things in it. Stop. Don’t kiss my neck, I love it too much when you do that. I need to be able to tell you that you need to leave. No, no. It’s not you. Obviously. It’s just that I don’t know how to love you anymore.

I look at the bedroom, on your study, there are so many post-its on the study table calling you to submit applications, build presentations, attend workshops. Were you able to do any of those? The corners are getting rolled up sweetie and the glue is getting dusty. Those post-its won’t last. Will we? No, no. It’s really not you. It’s me, it’s just that I cannot love you anymore. It stifles me.

You get into our bed, you spoon me. Your fingers running on my back. It feels good. I nuzzle my head into your neck and it brings me so much comfort. But, I want to tell you that we aren’t supposed to be lying next to each other or sharing a bed. I love you less and less every second of every minute of every hour.

Stop.

No, no. It’s you.