Dead Letter (II)

You are here, so grateful I am you returned, though only for a handful of days. [And when I said I missed you, that I'm glad you're here, you said: I'm glad you're glad.] Leaving again, day after tomorrow, and I think I can't go on, I'll go on*. I don't feel different; in fact, I may love you more, though this knowledge is too dangerous to share. Is it knowledge anyway, or just something I want so badly I've convinced myself it's something it's not? I think it shocks you someone desires you. Another summer to get through commences.

*S. Beckett

Dead Letter

There was a time, sitting with you at the work table in your apartment, when I felt like I'd been hit on the head with a brick. And I mean this as a wonderful thing: I was jolted into the present. That's when I realized I might be in trouble because I couldn't see you the way I see most men.

You see, I had begun to think of dating as killing time. But I realized, when I was hit on the head with that brick, that I'd been split open. How easy it would have been simply to kill time with you and to breathe a sigh of relief as your plane took off, away from this city, this country, for good. It could have been that way, if you were a different person. It could have been that way, if it weren't for the brick.