I never have to see you; I can sense you well enough.

There is seems to exist some human fascination with sight, but I believe most could comfortably live without it. There is mystery without the eyes and a glorious, idealistic show of what goodness can lie in men. And then, only blind can one honestly see beyond beauty, which is such a fickle, short thing; those with sight cannot possibly ever reach this height, so I often close my eyes. And still I know you are on the opposite side of the room, and the imperfections of my own ideals are shown bare because I have inadvertently held the image of you in my mind nonetheless. You, resting in the bay window, blonde hair adorned with holly, gown of gold and red draping your slim frame and you gaze out through the frosted glass. To me, the scene outside is of no interest; it is no longer in my mind.

But you have always been far more sighted than me and so probably find the winter landscape beautiful. You are probably admiring the large, ornament dressed pine stood in the courtyard in the distance, and I remember how the lights from the adorning candles are intense enough to softly glow in your eyes. Occasionally, I can hear Saint Bernards barking and the laughter of the guesthouses' children.

I could last without sound as well, though only now, in my current age. I am rather glad that I have been born with this sense; to know music, catch sounds, but never to hear voices. That, I would be pleased to forget; eliminate the rambling, inane gossip, and plain stupidity. Instead, I would rely utterly upon the written word- and I only just contradicted myself. If one could not see, how could one read? What a misery, the difficulties of my dreams; how often they complicate one another.

As I write, I catch a waft of your perfume and toss aside the idea of describing that scent. I imagine it would sound much too mellifluous and rather ridiculous; I am not poetic and thus will refrain from such pretty drabble. My eyes flutter open to stare at the page and to watch with dull attention to the movement of my hand, interrupting only to quench the dry nib. This is your ink, as is this room, this chair, the sounds and the guests; I am only a visitor myself. A rarity, since someone of my station is not usually welcome at such an estate, though you shrug off such talk, but still I feel it. It is bitterness, an anger, since what I achieve with difficulty you are given with ease; it is not jealousy, I treasure my accomplishments, I only wish to know that you realize the unfairness.

In all honestly, I desire to know why it is you risk your position and reputation to be with me. With arrogance, I embrace my own intelligence, and soak in knowledge with a ravenous appetite; my wit is sharp, and I know of my own brand of charm, yet I also understand people. I know that is not what one desires in a lover; they want to embrace a thin, shaped body, and mine is rather average. After making love, they want to gaze into a lovely face, and all you have had to settle with one that is quite plain. I hardly whisper words of endearment and never mutter everlasting promises; they leave an unpleasant taste in my mouth. Why must you flatter the one you love? It feels so awkward, it could not possibly be right.

On evenings before this, I have stood in the parlour with your select friends, you seated before the piano, hands resting on the keys. I stood away at some distance, heaviness in my heart as my condemnatory gaze flickered from one individual to another. The weight is of hatred, I know, and as you begin to play some ditty my attention wanders. When your hands lift from the ivory, you are greeted with applause, and I set my champagne glass on the windowsill to join, though with a lack of desire. Their voices lift, showering you with compliments and then I look away. The skills you were blessed with, or rather, that you learned through the aid of your family's money, do not impress me, but I love you, when you are as you are now. When you are resting on the window seat, idle and simple, or when we are speaking alone, conversation not of any consequence; only with you does nonsense mean much more.

I hear you stand, but do not lift my eyes from my writing even as the brushing fabric of your steps draw nearer. And suddenly, I am afraid, for I hear cheering downstairs, the party din growing as midnight approaches to mark Christmas day. I mourn to think that you will ask me to accompany you downstairs, where I will only watch men fawn over you, while your family watches for potential suitors, one of which I could never possibly be. I can watch you pretend again, and suppress the urge to whisk you away from the pretentious stage life, while claiming you as mine, and me as yours, important beyond measure of everyone else, despite all their stupid words and venerations! Fortunately, though, you digress, dragging a small, wooden chair to the left side of the desk, and now I wonder why you asked me to write, since I doubt you would even want to scan this drivel with your dark eyes. I listen to you sigh, though not even spare you a glance, since I have set out on this task, though I know not to what end it will accomplish or if it even is meant to have a goal.

From the corner of my eyes, I see your hand wander to my sleeve and feel your fingertips brushing the fabric with a sort of hesitance, as if to say, 'dear, I love you. Do you me?'
And I gently withdraw my hand only to enlace my fingers with yours.

My love, I do.