I’m sorry, Elizabeth,
There is no Mr. Darcy-
And yet you keep looking,
Although you know that all that is strong and lasting
Starts and ends with you-
(Your own breath in your lungs,
Your places of ache, and bitterness).
Elizabeth, I know.
Your love of Love knocks you down; it bowls you over.
A purpose, a place, a Home in someone else’s arms,
A direction,
A channel for the wellspring of your grief.
(These webs are dense, but fragile. You’ve felt it. Some days they break, leaving you to hold bewildered the frayed and dusty edges of your Great Romance).
You hold your mouth half-open,
Lips pursed,
Waiting to say: Take all of me.
Make me whole.

Elizabeth, say:
“I am not yours.”

Please-

“Darcy, you are too silent,
and undecided.
I don’t like the way you test me,
The way you’ re always watching.”

You could say-

“Give me space, now, to feel all the pleasure that I can cup in my six senses and ten toes.”

And-

“Let me wear dresses and collared shirts.
Let me drink sweet tea, and gin.”

Elizabeth, no one is a fantasy (a fantasy, no-one).
Elizabeth, make all kinds of glorious mistakes.
Your heart is strong enough to hold the weight of them.
Uncurl your tongue from the roof of your mouth.
You can live unmasked, and beautiful, and tender in the suspended places.

You are already whole.