• Clarke Rose

I love you


For those of you who often read my work, you'll notice this style is a bit different. It is a story, the "she" is me, the "him" is Pierre and it is 100% true. Thank you for letting me share my heart with you all; It means the most.

He doesn’t say it back, he doesn’t need to, she knew he wouldn’t. Some show, some tell; he shows, she tells, they fuck, later of course.

A couple hours earlier, she waited for him against the cold dated stone. Wearing oversized vintage denim and a tiny black top, sandals, for the first time in years. Men walked by and blatantly stared at her chest, much too exposed for a city accustomed to scarves and under the table sexuality. She watched the people go by, waiting for him, the only man she really wanted to look at her chest, to get lost in it, to make love in it.

“Chaos,” he called it, the scene around him, once he arrived, and they took their place on the wide open grass. He looked handsome, tall, beautiful, unattainable, present, distant, fuck-able. He was kidding, naturally, because the scene in front of them was stunning. Huge glass buildings, bridges painted with gold, motorcycle lights, Parisian balconies, an array of flowers, and the two of them. Nearby were other groups of people sharing wine, picnics, truths. And there they were, on a blanket covered in light pink roses, with a bottle of red, a baguette, boursin and olives.

They ate like they made love, revelling in every bit of every taste. The food and wine was between them and she wanted him closer, it had been a year and a half they’d been playing this game and she still craves his touch like the night they first met. An entire baguette later and their bodies are intertwined, that space she wanted filled is full, and they’re talking about the future.

This is uncommon for them, a pair much accustomed to the present, to the now, to not making empty promises. But time is ticking and distance is calling and she feels stress, she feels love. She didn’t mean to fall in love, fuck, who means to fall in love? She’s looking at him like he’s a painting that will one day be up on a wall in her home, a gorgeous reminder of the French one who got away. She’s not like this, not romantic, but there are lights and flowers and buildings and wine, and a year and a half’s worth of memories.

There was that time, they pulled over on the side of the road on their way to a chateau, and they did it in a bee-field. She had nothing to lean on, so she bent over and stood all the way up on her tippy toes as the bees buzzed all around them.

There was that time, he made her pasta, he loves making her pasta, and then he took her to his room. He undressed her, spread her legs, and drew what he saw. Making something that has been so sexualised by the outside into art, into beauty, into sex without sex.

There was that time, they were alone in a purple-lit hotel swimming pool somewhere in the north of France. They role-played swim instructor and student, he taught her how to swim keeping a constant hand on her pussy. At midnight, they popped champagne, it was his 29th birthday.

There was that time, they did drugs together, and fell asleep on a castle bed that didn’t belong to them, holding each other like they might slip away if they didn’t hold tight enough and he said, “I’m scared.”

“Why, baby?” She asked.

“I’m just scared,” his face was unrecognisable, foreign, lost.

“But why, baby?” He had never really ever expressed anything.

“I’m scared you might break my heart.”

That was it, that was his, that was the time he told.

Back to the grass, back to the wine, back to the golden painted bridges.

They’re laying down, he’s somewhat on top of her. She’s scared now, of the future, and he tells her they don’t have to think about that yet. And she, scared of love and undeniably in it, looks up at him and can’t help but saying, “I love you,” and begins to cry.


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