No! THIS is England- Part 3
This is another of the quite crude, quite poor excuses for writing that I've been posting lately. It's not really meant to be read in any way, it's just... there...
I didn’t love her, that I was certain about. Somewhat. I could have loved her. But I don’t think I did. I was fairly sure I didn’t. I didn’t love her. But as I laid next to her staring humbly into her chestnut eyes, I felt nothing but sheer adoration for her. I softly ran my hand up and down her hip and side making her mew softly and snuggle deeper into my shoulder, I loved her warmth and longed constantly to feel the outline of her kind face digging into my shoulder. It comforted me to have that closeness with someone, for the first time in my life I felt valid to the point that I felt that someone cared for me- and it was her.
I felt her fingertips gently caress my jaw line brushing through the short hair upon it, I had forgotten to shave that morning and though she hated me having a beard but she didn’t say anything. She never did. A spark shot through me as I felt her touch, she was so tender, she was so kind, she was so beautiful. I carefully kissed her forehead as her hand cupped my cheek and suddenly I was pulled into a lingering kiss. I loved her then. As our lips caressed each other and as she softly stroked my neck, I timidly played with her black hair. She sensed my nerves and pulled away so she could talk to me with her eyes. It’s okay she said I love you. Her eyes told me lies but I believed her, for that moment.
She wasn’t all that similar to me. She was troubled. She relied on sex and alcohol and drugs in order to live her life, I lived by spending time with her. I often wonder- when I look back- that if Thatcher hadn’t ruined the youth of a previous era whether or not we’d have met, her and I, and then if I could have felt more secure. Whether I could be without her and not worry. But that wasn’t possible as it was. At the same time our relationship might have gone further if we didn’t live in a society where self harm and suicidal tendencies weren’t regarded as disabilities. There was a time, even in my remembrance, when a depression was a lull in economy or feeling unhappy. Now it has lots of different meanings that someone simply must explore. But this didn’t quite suit me, and whilst I felt comfortable with her as she motioned that we should go to sleep. There was something nagging at me.
Then I knew, when I saw the clock turn to three o’clock it hit me. I was happy. Laying next to this beautiful girl who seemed to care for me. I was happy. It was a horrible feeling- happiness, it was somewhat hollow and empty. Like Bryan Adams’ lyrics. I felt lost, so unaware of how to be happy and yet in being so I was sombre. So seldom had the idea of happiness come to me that now when I had it, it had turned to melancholy.
She slept. I did not. I left in the morning after kissing her. I left with a sore head and little sleep. I left whilst listening to the Pogues. I left after leaving her a note. I left full of hope of something good. That afternoon she told me she thought she was in love with me, a week after she told me she didn’t and loved someone else. I cried. I left. I bought a parrot. I called it Caravaggio. I fed it. Turned on the oven. Stuck my head inside. I didn’t love her.