How to say, my man, goodbye to you,
And tell you why I need to leave for some new found land,
After all your kindness, it is true,
To come from your tent to brew my tea the way I like,
To speak your love of my height and my hair,
So long and flaxen you would say,
And your joy to teach me in your way.
But yes – in your way, in your way,
But that way cannot be mine –
To insist that I learn Latin and your clever play with words,
To praise my simple faith,
And the swift swing of my fist and turn of phrase,
To fend the tiresome advance of sly and brutal men.
Did that make me ideal or unreal,
A perfect body and disposition in your perfect mind ?
For you sought that ideal in both word and deed,
And could I match that vision,
In my simple need for soft and plain words of affection,
And steadfast mood ?
Could I trust your judgment cast in fine words and offers of union,
But spoken without unadorned affection,
And burdened with contentious quips ?
You ask too much and say so little,
And I fear I cannot survive your expectation,
Entombed in your grand fancy as your magnificent Belle.
But I am, will be, just Belle,
Ordinary in my needs and comforts,
Not restless like you, for new words and strange society.
So as you sleep, I must leave you now,
With these written words of goodbye,
And this coil of flaxen hair that will never change or die.
Always, your affectionate female friend,