I Wished For You Too
Today marks 1 month and 5 days since he entered my life and I could not possibly have any more conviction in the knowledge that he is supposed to be here, and I with him. I am consistently bewildered at how familiar he seems, how in sync we are with each other, its something in his eyes, something timeless. I am forced to conclude that we have known each other long before this lifetime. Of this I am sure. I equivocate on whether or not I want him to read this now or even in the distant future, when life isn't quite so..well, shitty. But I have to write freely and without constraint for this writing process to be any kind of therapeutic, so here goes.. I never question his love, I never doubt it for a second, probably because I know in my heart that he doesn't. And for me, it's not even that I question our love, I don't question or doubt anything. I do love him, in entirety. What I must begin to wonder is, not whether I am capable of love.. but whether or not I am capable of loving him in a way that is satisfying to both of us, whether or not I can ever truly ground our relationship in the corporeal and the tangible, and perhaps most importantly -
Can I love him with the intensity, the purity, the beauty that he loves me? He is perfect, and I am me.
Is love a real, experiential thing for me? It must be. On the biochemical level, I am no different than any member of the sapiens race. God knows chemicals flare, my blood warms and my face gets flushed when we make love, my skin raises and goosebumps run down my spine when he puts his arms around me and kisses my neck. When he cries, a part of me dies every time. Because he is so beautiful and so pure of heart. He is love. And someone like that just shouldn't know hurt. I once told him one of my favorite Depeche Mode songs, Precious, always reminds me of him.. "Precious and fragile things, shouldn't know suffering... if God has a master plan, that only he understands, I hope it's your eyes he's seeing through..." Since the day we started talking online, two strangers miles and miles apart, and he asked me so brazenly and yet so cutely if I wanted to jerk off with him on camera later that evening... I laugh as I type it, but he has always had such a gravitas to him. I just can't get enough. I can't stay away, and I did try. To no avail. I know I must love him. Because when he is happy, well, its infectious. The best kind of disease. The all-consuming, delirium-inducing kind, that leaves your heart racing, and your body buoyant, and your stomach in stitches because dear God, when have you laughed so hard, in years? Ever?
I aspire to love with the fury and fervor that he loves me.
I continue to have doubt in my ability to keep a man like him. But this is the most connected I've felt in a long time, and not just to him, but to the ether of the universe, the string of events and happenstances and points in time that just cant be happy coincidence, from our upbringings to our symbols and totems, to our inexplicable attraction to one another.
His happiness has so very quickly become my happiness. We are striving to learn one another still, despite so much of the puzzle already falling into place. I choose to believe that our love can heal both of us if we let it. He is love and light and goodness, he is sin, he is despair, anger, jealousy and joy. He is everything to me.
With him, I see love for the enduring, tenacious force it really is. Oft buried in the quotidian happenstances of our everyday life. Love is not getting upset that he used your toothbrush, love is the sigh of relief that he already did the mountain of dishes that you were just dreading having to clean, or that you can joke about bodily functions and take reprieve in the comfort and security you have with him, that you can make jokes about that which makes you feel gross or unattractive or improper, and he still laughs. Love is him waiting for you in the parking lot after a job interview, knowing he waited an hour sitting in the car bored as hell just for the chance to ask how it went. Love is finding out that he cut his hair or trimmed his facial hair to look good for you. Love is him asking months in advance if I would be his Valentine in February, smiling when I said yes. Love is his getting up to always turn on the air when I ask if its getting stuffy. Love is him selling his brand new phone so that we have money for at least one romantic night out. Love is him being there when I wake up after a nightmare. Love is getting butterflies, still, when I see he texted me. Love is looking into his eyes and holding his gaze, and watching time start to stand still. These are the manifestations of love. Yes love is also that gripping passion, that consuming episode of sex, where you feel alive and enraptured, all the drama and hype that the movies lead us to believe. But that is also passion, a cousin of love but a younger one, one more impulsive and given to whim. Love is far more mature, far more wise, far more powerful. And above all else, love is rare. Not because it is scarce but because we choose all too often to not see it, to avoid it or run away from it. Because it is terrifying. But also beautiful. As Tolstoy says, [love] is the only one thing we are all interested in here.
I love him. I love him. Till I am old and gray, I love him.
