An open love letter - The English lady

I compare and melt into apathy. Also whilst I am privileged to be here, in my own company with the voice of an English elite - With a melancholic view. I see you again. The idea, the feeling, the memory, the silent devil angel frolicking every full moon. Swirling pleasant anxiety. To meet you is to be a great mountain, an established magician, the humblest of monks. To meet you is to be detached from you so I can offer you only fine imagery from heart not from peach. I stay in escape to learn the arts of me, so I may be your equal. Why is it so important to be on par with you? I feel your greatness, tenderness and constant striving will be the impossible mirror. Without you I can maintain a satisfactory calm a care free charm. Yet you walk on that, with silent grace. A daily mop up. I dare to put the competitive chimp aside but with you I want to dazzle, move and consume. Like the banished witch I become. Calling sirens, a courting theater. 
My secret confession is irrationally itchy, a greedy seed - that we will grow old together like mythology. Who you really are is hidden by my empire of dreams and perhaps that is what I need to exist. For my path grows wider by the illusion of you. A painful truth I can only stretch into and drink from my disguised rapture. The drama gives me wings to fly this film of I. Why must I write as if this will be on show. Some prostitute farmer. Romantic propagandist. I am so hard on myself when it comes to you. I dream of old nights when complete symphonies filled my glee and waking up was the biggest smile ever seen. Oh me to me I must support myself, a giant pat on the back for coming this far, with all the narratives stacked in love sick jars. Wild sounds will clear the way for truth, where you can receive all without need or vanity. Love is only with nature the rest is a response to societies web. Even the one in your bed now festers his own ills and quills, we are all cowards in the face of reproduction and poetry. I want the wind. The cliffs. The birds. And yet I will think of you. Because you are nature to me. Sacred mutations all over me. Sighing sandwiches of conflict and release. Only to circulate here, the private chambers of my imagination, a planet of petals and stars. Why do I feel as if we are magnetic lambs meant for other places and times. Dangerous inferring's such as these can catapult me into very odd waters. Where my senses are betrayed and you are just a frog.