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I feel like breaking, Paris. It’s been less than 24 hours since I left your undeniable, demanding presence and I’m trying not to break.

Those few days, I was there – like really there; I was committed, just like I have always been when I’m in love. You had no idea another love was running in the background, while I was running around, glamorously frantically meeting all these wonderful artists and making progress on all these wonderful projects, quietly but with no less undeniable, demanding presence.

This love running in the background has been taking roots in me and I was in the process of integrating it with my love for you, so that I felt one, instead of less whole, with all of this love. But what is love if not care, through actions and words and silence, through space and not distance, through understanding that makes time seem irrelevant; if not growing together through learning from and with each other?

That’s how I love you, Paris.

That’s how you love me too. People might think, seeing me so often hopping on and off the Eurostar trains between London and Paris on my own seemingly unlimited resources – maybe they are unlimited – trust me that’s always the easiest part – that it must be exhausting, but reciprocated love is never draining; it’s often invigorating. Well, according to my limited experience and vivid imagination anyway.

I am not one for keeping score, for walking into anything with a sensible question in my mind “what’s in it for me?” but you never neglected me, Paris, and that was about as prestigious as love as I knew it. Well, according to my life long experience and limited self-esteem anyway. And now, through our intensive interactions, and intensive care, not only that you don’t make me feel neglected, you make me feel supported, protected, understood and thus liberated beyond wealth.

That’s how you love me and that’s how I want to love others. That’s how you love me and I should be content with this love. But you belong to everyone else who wants you, who knows that you are there for the taking and I guess I want something to myself, or more or less so.

I sometimes wonder how many can take you, the full depth and breadth of you, like I can. I sometimes wonder how many, if anyone, can take me, the full depth and breadth of me, my undeniable, demanding presence, like you can. I wonder if I can take anyone, their full depth and breadth, without stealing their freedom, without wanting them to give up what they’re not ready to give. Without losing my softness in the process.

Perhaps I can. I’m sure I can. I know I can. But I can’t go back to neglect – not after what you showed to me available, Paris! Now I want more and wanting more than loving and being neglected has hardened me, albeit momentarily, where I should be softer. I should be softer so I don’t break.

I feel like breaking, Paris. Oh, how I long to crack like a brittle stick that looks solid to the undiscerning eyes, to shatter like annealed glass covering an admirable painting, to break into pieces in someone’s hands! Safe hands! But would I break in safe hands? No – I would become softer. I would melt. And I would flow. Like your river.

Your river has been my safe hands, Paris. Though alone, I can walk alongside it with my pain and hope without judgement or punishment. And for what it’s worth, I guess I have poetry, though I often say I’d rather be happy. Now I know I’d rather be softer, so I don’t break, ‘cause I feel like breaking, Paris. I’ll see you Thursday.

londres, le 10 mai 2026

je t’embrasse !

d.o.