I want to be naked. For you. I miss you. When I'm alone, I'm alone with you. Not always anymore. But it was every second of every minute of every hour of every day. For a long time.
People who lose a loved one to death are physically separated; they must accept that they'll never hear that person's voice, see their face, nor feel the warm of their skin. Forever and always. In this lifetime, until the next. Their loved one is gone. I read how they talk to them as I talk to you. Write to them as I write to you. See them in their periphery, like ghosts--as I also see you. The difference is that you still breathe. The sense that on this physical plane, we are supposed to exist together, is difficult to shake. Obviously, it's impossible. For me. At least, so far.
Sometimes I think I can't forgive you, no matter what. It's been too long. You've been too quiet. Even when you haven't. And then, I get caught up as I catch a sob in my chest. The sorrow is deep. As deep as the love. Which seems deeper than the oceans, or perhaps better yet, the reaches of farthest space.
I see Angels. Their wings, catching a glint of moonlight in an open field. Flying with my car at great speeds along the grassy separations of the highways I travel. They guard me. Walk with me. Encourage me. But, no matter how much I cried for God to help me, bad things happened.
Why did you let them happen???
You are not well, I know. An addict. Abused. Victimized. Terrible things happened to you, too. Things I did not know or understand. But I would have tried. I wanted to. To help you. Help make your dreams come true, the way I thought you were helping me.
You hurt me more than cancer ever did or ever could. I lived after cancer. For a long time. Will I see the same longevity after you? I already know the answer. You do, too.
Are you as stuck as I am???
People don't put themselves out there like this because they are afraid of what other people might think. Afraid that the person they write to will read it and laugh. Feel joy at their pain. Feel a sense of superiority. Be prideful. Egotistical. You may or may not do all those things...but it's more likely you do nothing. Say nothing. Remain still. Hidden. Silent. Because it is you who is afraid.
You speak with bravado to others about me, as if you don't care. But I know you do. And, I feel sad for you that you have to hide who you really are. I feel pity that you can't follow your bliss--not because you can't, but because you won't. Remember when I read your mind? I do. That was what I read...you kept speaking, "I can't," until I heard, "I won't." That's when I became angry. The lies alone. You were cruel to a person who only deserved kindness from you because she was only ever kind to you. Generous. Loyal. To a fault.
That is the most pitiable thing of all. Amidst the unnecessary drama, you lost the one person you could actually trust. The one person who did more for you in 14 months than anyone had done in 14 years. No matter what rhetoric was (and is) used, deep inside your heart, you know that my words ring true. Because, if I know it, you do, too.
For you, it's a loss. One of many. So many, you perhaps are unable to fully recognize it's significance. Maybe you even believe it's something you can still replace. Or, duplicate. For me, it was outright robbery. Stealing. And, I've lived long enough to know that what was stolen was unique, and therefore, priceless.
You will forever and always be the thief. Always and forever, the liar. But real love doesn't judge or discriminate. That's what's pitiable for me....