I do not want her to go. I will miss her.
I have never felt like this towards a woman who is not a lover before.
For she is not mine. She will never be mine again. Not for one borrowed, quiet, holy, sensual afternoon. Not for one stolen, sultry, breathless, decadent, velvet night. Not even for a long, heart-stopping, eloquent kiss.
If I hold her gently in an embrace it will be chaste and clothed, even with her beautiful, sweet head resting upon my chest.
Yet I have offered to her my total, unconditional, non-judgemental, non-physical friendship. A rare gift that I barely recognise let alone know how to bestow.. I usually fear the burden of dependence, the demands of alliance, the pressure of association, the discomfort of company, the weight of expectation of any friend. I am a solitary, self-contained creature, whose brave society skills hide a fierce isolated independence of spirit. I avoid duty and obligation.
But I want her to feel close. I want her to feel utterly at ease in my company. Not to fear me in any way. To trust me without question. To know that she is protected, safe, guarded, sheltered. To sense the cloak of my protection around her. To understand and be glad, and perhaps proud, that I am her guardian, her sometime companion, her occasional partner in small crimes, her now-and-again shoulder to lean upon, her meillieur ami, her confidant, her amigo, her chum.
Her shirt-front to soak with tears. Someone with whom she can always laugh at the world.
I do not want her to go.
Yet however far away she is, however remote, however distant – even if we never meet again – I hope she will believe in the forever certainty of my genuine friendship and deep affection. .