Hmmm
18 Sep 2007
Love / Need help: Can't get my polish girl to say "I love you" [84]
She's the most amazing girl I've met. She smells like roses, tastes like rain and races my pulse like a speeding train. I've known her for a little more than a month now. We met when I was filming an ad film in Poland. From the moment we saw each other, we drew closer every day. The first spell of meetings began with a few cordial exchanges of pleasantries and ended with an exchange of email ids. And then I left Poland to my home half-way around the world, but the mails we sent each other fuelled a fire that even oceans couldn't quench. Oceans that I crossed to met her once again, this time not to make a film - but to capture a star, to catch a dream, to chase a destiny. We wept when we made tender love, we whispered when we walked hand-in-hand, we lied when we said we could wait until we meet again. I met her parents; shook the hands of her father with a firm, reassuring grasp to tell him I would never leave his daughter's hands should he give them to me. I praised her mother for the enchanting beauty she gave as a legacy to her firstborn daughter; deep were their gratitude when they heard my sincere compliments, deeper still their pride as they saw how much I cared for their princess.
I poured out my heart to my polish lady; I emptied myself out to her; I left no love unspoken, no promise unfulfilled, no dream uncertain. As often our eyes met, I told her that I care for her. As often as we touched, I told her I will be there for her. But she still withheld her lips from uttering the words I so longed to hear - "I love you".
I walked her at 2 a.m. in the starless morning, braving the punishing cold and draping on her the sweater that would keep me warm. I numbed the pain of the bitter wind beating on my chest, considering it not a sacrifice but a joy to be able to keep her tender skin warmer than mine. And as I squeezed her hand gently I whispered once more into her ears, I love you. She smiled back at me and her lips moved to lifelessly say, "I know you do".
For four days and four nights I cherished her, praised her, embraced her and reduced myself to a romantic nomad wanting nothing more than to hear the words I so often lavished on her. But she never did say she loves me. Her body did, her kisses did, her touch did. But her lips, they were as stubborn as the grave that never gives back its dead, as unyielding as a mighty oak that proudly spurns the gentle breeze.
Now I'm back in my home. Miles away from the woman who still confesses that she misses me, still longs to hear my voice, yet never utters the words, "I love you" - not even in response to mine.
I need to know if Polish women have a hard time saying these words to the one they love, or is it just my beautiful princess. For if that's the way every Polish woman feels and behaves, then I will gladly listen to the sound of her silence and draw my strength for tomorrow in the unsaid words that she didn't utter today. But if it's only my lady who refrains from saying it, then I shall try hard to woo her and harder still to stifle my tears.
She's the most amazing girl I've met. She smells like roses, tastes like rain and races my pulse like a speeding train. I've known her for a little more than a month now. We met when I was filming an ad film in Poland. From the moment we saw each other, we drew closer every day. The first spell of meetings began with a few cordial exchanges of pleasantries and ended with an exchange of email ids. And then I left Poland to my home half-way around the world, but the mails we sent each other fuelled a fire that even oceans couldn't quench. Oceans that I crossed to met her once again, this time not to make a film - but to capture a star, to catch a dream, to chase a destiny. We wept when we made tender love, we whispered when we walked hand-in-hand, we lied when we said we could wait until we meet again. I met her parents; shook the hands of her father with a firm, reassuring grasp to tell him I would never leave his daughter's hands should he give them to me. I praised her mother for the enchanting beauty she gave as a legacy to her firstborn daughter; deep were their gratitude when they heard my sincere compliments, deeper still their pride as they saw how much I cared for their princess.
I poured out my heart to my polish lady; I emptied myself out to her; I left no love unspoken, no promise unfulfilled, no dream uncertain. As often our eyes met, I told her that I care for her. As often as we touched, I told her I will be there for her. But she still withheld her lips from uttering the words I so longed to hear - "I love you".
I walked her at 2 a.m. in the starless morning, braving the punishing cold and draping on her the sweater that would keep me warm. I numbed the pain of the bitter wind beating on my chest, considering it not a sacrifice but a joy to be able to keep her tender skin warmer than mine. And as I squeezed her hand gently I whispered once more into her ears, I love you. She smiled back at me and her lips moved to lifelessly say, "I know you do".
For four days and four nights I cherished her, praised her, embraced her and reduced myself to a romantic nomad wanting nothing more than to hear the words I so often lavished on her. But she never did say she loves me. Her body did, her kisses did, her touch did. But her lips, they were as stubborn as the grave that never gives back its dead, as unyielding as a mighty oak that proudly spurns the gentle breeze.
Now I'm back in my home. Miles away from the woman who still confesses that she misses me, still longs to hear my voice, yet never utters the words, "I love you" - not even in response to mine.
I need to know if Polish women have a hard time saying these words to the one they love, or is it just my beautiful princess. For if that's the way every Polish woman feels and behaves, then I will gladly listen to the sound of her silence and draw my strength for tomorrow in the unsaid words that she didn't utter today. But if it's only my lady who refrains from saying it, then I shall try hard to woo her and harder still to stifle my tears.