I am reduced to a thing that wants.
I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in quite a simple desperate human way.
You, with all your un-dumb letters, would never write so elementary phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn't even feel it.
And yet I believe you'll be sensible of a little gap.
But you'd clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it would lose a little of its reality.
Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed, and I was prepared to miss you a good deal.
So this letter is just really a squeal of pain.
It is incredible how essential to me you have become.
I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things.
Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan't make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this - but oh my dear, I can't be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that.
Too truly.
You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don't love.
I have brought it to a fine art.
But you have broken down my defences.
And I don't really resent it...

- Vita Sackville-West