dclarion: (Default)
The evening previous, we had got together with old friends.  I had not seen these people since my thirtieth birthday party.  It was such a long time ago, nearly twenty-five years, but we were nthe nsame cadre we were nin high school.  We remembered the old days, we remembered the one of our number who was with us only in memory.  It was good.

It turned out that it was karaoke night at that establishment, and I could not pass up a chance I thought I might never have again; I went to the DJ's table and left a request.  When my turn came, I introduced my performance with "This is for someone very, very special."  It was Neil Diamond's Play Me.  I sang to her.  I watched her look back at me.  At the refrain, our eyes met.  "You are bthe Sun, I am the Moon, you are the words, I am the tune, Play Me."

As I came down from my room this morning, she was on her couch, waking from sleep.  We watched a DVD.   I took her hand, I softly caressed her shoulder.  I told her that I love her.  In all of my life, that was the most intimate moment I have ever known.

Then, the dogs wanted to be let out.

dclarion: (Default)

Of the journey from Pittsburgh to Lakewood, the most difficult part was the last few steps to the gold house on Elmwood Avenue. I had experienced anticipation and trepidation while packing the items I would need for the twelve days. I had paced the floor of the bus station in downtown Pittsburgh. I had shed tears in the seat of the coach, and described my excitement and terror to the fellow passengers who had noticed my crying. It was those last few feet, however, that I traversed with feet of lead.


It had been twenty-three years since I had seen the facade. It had been twenty-three years since last I had seen the person who lived there. It had been a very long twenty-three years. I remembered our meeting, in high school. I remembered the profundity of our falling in love. I remembered my stepping back when I knew that my parents would only hurt her terribly, when I knew that I could not subject her to that pain. I remembered our reunion, fifteen years later. I remembered our working together in her writers' workshop. I remembered our feelings for each other surfacing again. I remembered my stepping back, again, when I knew that I would only be a major complication in her life and that of her family.


I remembered my flight to Pittsburgh when my life in Cleveland came apart, and falling out of contact with her again. I had known that her health was not good, and I expected that she had died. I cherished her memory, recalling the good moments we had, and lamenting the errors of my past decisions. I loved her still, as I always had, as I always would.


Then came the contact request via Facebook. I was stunned; it took a full day for me to stop shaking. She was alive, returned from the grave. I considered it no coincidence that I had discovered her finding me on the day of the winter solstice, the event marking the return of light and the lengthening of days. We began lengthy correspondence, speaking of times past. She held a mirror to me, showing me what I had been, showing me how I had, for four decades, been in denial of my own motives in life. She initiated a torrent of tears that was to last three months, and which was the best thing anyone had ever done for me. She turned my life around; she even saved this life of mine.


Now I stood at the house on Elmwood Avenue. We had agreed that I should go to the side entrance, such that her Labs would not bolt through the open door. As the doorbell did not function, I took out my cell phone and entered her number. When she answered the call, I announced my arrival:


“Hon, check your side door.”


From the time of the embrace of our reunion to the time that I write these words, we have been engaged in long and intimate discussion. My life is changing yet again. She is helping me gather the pieces of my shattered existence and fit them into a whole, helping me build the basis of a life of which she is the cornerstone. She is my soul.


With all that I am, with all that, with your support and guidance, I may ever hope to become, I love you.


Thank you.

dclarion: (Default)
Why will those who are ostensibly so close to you not appreciate you?  Please explain this in terms that I can understand.  Why?
dclarion: (Default)
My Dearest One,

I've not put it quite this way before, but there is something you have done for me that has value beyond measure.  Do you remember my telling you that I firmly believe that each of us is alive by virtue of the other?  There is a case of this fresh in my mind.

For three years, I was constantly close to death by my own hand.  I was out of options.  I remember sitting at my desk, crying "I want to run away, but there is nowhere to run."  I was still in denial, knowing what I was doing, knowing what I had been doing for four decades, but still not comprehending it.

Then, you came back into my life.  You held a mirror to me, showing me how I had traded away pieces of myself, one by one, even my very soul, in exchange for empty promises of companionship and security.  You showed me how I took my worth from others, just enough to keep me around for the next round of degradation.  You turned me into a lake of tears for three months, but it was the best thing anyone has ever done for me.  You showed me that the only place I was going to find worth was within myself.  As painful as it was, you started me on the path to healing.  You turned my life around.  Again.

You, my Dearest One, literally saved my life.  How could I ever show you my gratitude?
dclarion: (Default)
You tell me that you do not want to fill me with false hope.  Let me tell you this:  I have made my decision.  I love you.  Whatever may happen, that will never change.  Always will I feel this love for you.  Should ever I have the privilege, I will proclaim it, for all the world to know.  There is no hope here, there is only fact.

Sunt tibi anima mea.
dclarion: (Default)
I want you to feel happy.  I want you to be respected.  I want you to feel the devotion of another.

I want, I want, I want.  This isn't about me, this is about you.  For the love of St. Gulik, what is it with all of this "I want"?
dclarion: (Default)
"I've got so much on my plate that I don't know where to stick my fork."

-- In reference to my having many projects going at once
dclarion: (pic#3018168)
At times in our life, I shall surely fail you.  I am human, and prone to error.  It is mine to see to it that these errors do not become choices.  But of all of the things that I may do, there is one thing that I shall not do.  As long as I live, as long as I love, I will never deny you.

With all that I am, with all that I might ever hope to become, I love you.

This is my pledge.  I pledge this upon my life.  I pledge this upon my honor.  I pledge this upon my memory.

Sunt tibi anima mea.

May 2013

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