So many things to tell you, so many things that I should have told you long ago. Like this: I’m quite sure I never really loved until I met you. Sure, I had felt the pangs of emotion that far too often get labeled love in the modern parlance, but those were just combinations of lust and proximity.
For most of my life I have been lost, searching, and yet I never knew what I was looking for. I traveled like a wandering nomad because I thought what I needed was to be found in distance, in places, in the new of life. But those things are empty, even more so when you come to realize that the searching has only left you more lost than before. It’s a feeling of tremendous regret that cannot be fully expressed with words.
I have arrived at a place in my life where I now understand just how completely imperfect I am. And yet you don’t see me that way, do you? I can sense in the way you look at me, the way you smile when you read something I have written for you. In your eyes I am made complete, whole, at home, less imperfect than the moment before you entered the room.
Yet I can sense I will not be able to charm you forever. I am far too inadequate to ever dream of fulfilling you for a lifetime. So you will move on and I will be shattered into thousands of particles that can never be reassembled. Does that mean I should let go before the moment arrives when I am crushed? How would I ever live without you for even a second?
I wish I knew what I had to say, had to do, to have you in my life for all eternity. Such things do not happen to men as broken as me. It is the curse of the muse we chase and seek to tame with our words. All words useless at times like these.
So here is what I have never said and will never admit: I hate myself for my own need, but I remain the neediest of the needy. How weak and pathetic of me. How utterly pitiful I must appear to you. No wonder you will one day terminate all contact with me.
I would open my heart more fully, but I am not even capable of that. I can only beg. It is all I have left.