If I die as soon as I fear I will, my greatest regret is that I have never loved anyone I’ve actually been with to the point of madness. The passion attached to the unrequited has proven to be unsurmountable when faced with possibility. I fear I cannot truly regret this. It is out of my control. Still… I desire the love described by Marquez in “Of Love and Other Demons,” the sort of love that compels two to trail the night with kisses and sonnets. All my hexameters have been reserved for those who will never be capable of even breathing in my direction.
I don’t feel sorry for myself. If their love doesn’t come as naturally as breathing, I don’t want it.
Still, I read Neruda and Cummings and Brautigan and I wonder what it’s like to love the one you’re with. I wonder what it’s like to feel like the sun and moon can rise in another’s eyes and it’s my privilege to be a witness to both. Not just a witness, a participant.
C’est la vie. C’est l’amour.