Love letter # 58
This may have to be the end. I don’t know that I have the strength to sit next to you and listen to you talk about other men. I understand that I’m being petty and jealous, that I have absolutely no claim over you … but I cannot stand it.
We had a great time last night. You were warm and friendly and generous. We got a little drunk, we got a little high, we talked like soulmates. It was beautiful. I loved it. I loved being only two feet from you.
But I am not blind. I saw that your eyes contained no desire; that I was just another friend, no longer the special one. Last night was exactly the kind of night when we would once have made the most wonderful love – but there was not a flicker of that possibility in anything you did or said. It’s not that you were cold; it’s just that I was on fire.
You have been honest and upfront with me and I respect that. But I cannot be number 58.
I realise that all this churning comes from me, that it is my desire for something I cannot have that’s making me ill. There is no blame for you to take, there is no reasonable criticism I can make. Yet all that even handed thinking does absolutely nothing to dilute this feeling. When I see you – even if only in my imagination – I am overwhelmed by how beautiful you are and how very much I want to be with you.
I would offer you forever but I know that two hours is your limit. And I wish I could be those other men that you tell me are so hot – but I’m not.
I love you – and therein lies the issue; because hope is the last thing to die. Indeed there are times when I swear that I will die first – and I am not ashamed to say that I have prayed for that day to arrive.
So be free, my love. Fly. Be brilliant. But maybe don’t call me …