You & Other Inconceivable Wonders. || {Loki}
Darling, pay me no attention. I fear I've been caught in a sudden frenzy of inspiration, or else some mad torrent of need - a need to speak, though how coherent it may be I cannot say. Forgive your foolhardy lover, for I drown so easily in words, rivers and seas of them, and they are all for you.
It should seem strange, I suppose, if I were to say that it is not often that I stopped to give our relationship a thorough consideration, since that is in fact what I do with all other facets of my life and the lives of others and the world at large around me. I do this without fail. I analyze, I ponder; I turn a thing over and over in my thoughts and weigh it on my tongue and find all the things about it that make it worthwhile or not, that make it a joy or a pain. I am a writer and writers first and foremost are observers, watchers; learners and thinkers, who take all the world has to offer and seek to condense it into a single, perfect sentence and sometimes manage to do so - if only every once in a long while.
I am a writer and I want to know the how and the why of all things, and then I want to know the things about it which have no name but matter just as strongly, that are just as integral.
But when it comes to you and I there is a curious phenomenon in which I find that such an examination of us - of the two of us as a whole - leaves me with a breathless sort of wonder, a sense of something beyond myself, something vast and impossible and yet somehow completely and inexplicably necessary. I sometimes try to wrap my head around it and find that I cannot, and then I sit in some sort dreamy half-trance, awash with the realization that what is between us is - on occasion - beyond my capacity to contemplate, or articulate, or synthesize.
You alone in all the world, in all the universe, have the power to render me speechless.
I am sometimes able to make sense of small things, if I'm very careful. Things like the way there seems to be a perfect regality to you, even in sleep - even in loose and languid slumber when you are as thoroughly sated as this meager creature can manage. (You are regal.) And there have been moments - so many - in which I've ruminated over your eyes and the protean nature of your smile, over the way it takes not much more than a glance and the barest, briefest hint of a smile from you to elicit the most exceptional range of reactions from me. (You draw me in.) Your eyes do the most wicked, breathtakingly beautiful things, too - in the first golden blush of dawn, or in the glitter of the city glow, or cast all bright by the firelight. (You are radiant.) And I find myself thinking - when I do bare to think of you and not feel like the sheer impact of it might blow me apart from the inside - I find that I am hopelessly, undeniably, ineffably in love with you.
I don't know how to describe the sort of giddy, ghastly happiness that instills in me - this frantic, fervent pleasure and passionate satisfaction, this feeling like there is a bubble of warmth in my chest and it is ever-expanding, bigger and bigger until it forces me open at the rib cage and comes out in a rush of senseless, utterly incomprehensible euphoria. It's a feeling like having your name is inscribed across the surface of every atom that is strung together to make this poor, pitiable being we call Scott all at once - a thousand small quills dipped in scalding sundrops for ink and all of them scribbling away at my soul in tedious, excruciatingly sweet tandem.
I am yours - and I am boundless in my love for you. Foolishly, perhaps, but if there is another way to love I don't want to know it. I know no other way to love but with my whole heart, with the sum of my being. I am yours, of that you can always be certain - and though it may make me dull or of less consequence, I cannot change it, nor would I. There may be no great appeal in the conquest assured, or in the captive heart well won and kept; you may one day tire of knowing that I am yours, through and through, to the core of me and through every inch of me - but it will never be any less true than it is now, than it has ever been. Not now and not ever.
I may never find a way to adequately articulate what it is I feel for you, for us - about us, when we're together. I may never understand the full breadth and depth of what it is you see in me, either - but that's alright too.
But not for the first time (because this is a thought I have so, so often) I think I can appreciate my mother's insistence on confession - on church, and religion and a commitment to a faith I never fully embraced beyond lip service. I never understood her devotion, her fervor - but I think I appreciate it now because it prepared me for you. For the experience of loving you. Because you are not just a god, but also a man - a man whose existence I find absolutely, compellingly necessary to my own. A man whom I could not contemplate being without now, not anymore. And yet, you are still a god - and I am devoted to your worship, albeit in a less conventional sense than most. I ache to be what you need, to be the thing that, if nothing else, brings you some measure of pleasure or joy. And moreover, I don't just ache to do so, but I need to. I need to be that thing you treasure, though my value comparatively may not be as great as some others. You make me happy. Being with you makes me - god, there are no words for how I feel with you. I have written this whole letter with a steady rhythm and still, I have not the words to describe what I feel.
Sometimes I think that might make me less of a writer and more of a babbler - but then I think that if there were any man, woman or god that could completely and totally sum up and synthesize for general consumption the real and true feeling of love like this, then it would have been done long before I ever came into being.
I love you, Loki. My Liesmith, my trickster; the breath in my lungs and the joy in my heart. You are an endless, divine mystery in a fleshy, tangible form that I will never tire of worshipping; you are a puzzle and an enigma and everything beautiful and wicked I have ever wished for or imagined wanting. You are a good man and a deviant one, light and dark and not flawless, but perfect in my eyes.
You are all the things I have ever needed or wanted, and all the things I have never considered wanting or needing, and what I want most is to sink you deep into the wellspring of my thoughts, in the cavernous labyrinth of my heart, so that you might know for yourself what I mean, what I am really trying to say when I am at a loss for words and instead find myself with the most-tried and truest incantation ever to pass mortal lips:
I love you.