A Person of Solitude

Often...though you seem to me utterly whimsical in nature—I've never found any lack of care for me within you. Your excessive emotionality has never confused me. You understand me terribly well...how, I don't know. But reading your written words, I'm certain—you love me fearfully much.

You want to keep me with you always—which is impossible. To love someone without truly knowing them...is a kind of self-destructive plan. It's not possible for me to be with you constantly, yet I can't seem to change this habit of touching your writings either. That I should love you...I can't manage that either.

I wanted to draw you close, and you...what did you do? Your excuses truly have no end. You don't want to come near—you could have said that clearly, there was no need for all this pretense.

Every time you've met with me, what have you been able to give me other than anguish?

People are so strange—today, the person I don't find appealing, whose touch causes me pain, surely I should feel good when that person leaves? But no—I'm in terrible pain.

I want to hold you close, I want to say—I want to spend the rest of my life with you. These realizations didn't come to me suddenly though. From the moment I knew...that behind all your excuses there's a reason, that in all your writings there are the memories we spent together, that deep in your heart there's a silent room for me—from that moment until today I haven't been able to forget you for even an instant.

In this life, no one has ever possessed me more than you have.