And then I begin to wonder; I let my mind dissolve, simply. Why burden myself with these thoughts when they give me nothing in response to my questions? I can delve no further. You are so cruel, Christine. But in that same instance I must also say that it is what keeps me here; yes, it is what makes me thrive. Do you realize how completely you have me? Do you see that my soul is yours, and that it will forever be with you? I speak the truth, I'm afraid. And perhaps I could live with that honesty; I could content myself with that distance (and even as I write those words, dearest, I see how terribly wrong they are.)
But what I cannot bear are the tantalizing gifts you bestow upon me. I cannot bear how close you are; I cannot bear you pulling away. God, it is like being offered a sweet slice of pie after years of starvation (for I have been starving for years), and feeling your fingertips brush against its lush surface before watching, helplessly perhaps, as someone younger, swifter, leaner, stronger, containing more confidence, reaches out and takes it from your searching fingers. I don't know how many times I can play that game, Christine. I doubt I will ever be swift enough. But alas! I do not have any doubt that my hands will always be searching; pleading, maybe? And nothing else will satiate me; I have but one source of nurturance. This is plain knowledge to both of us.
Maybe it means nothing to you that I am only alive (need I explain?) when you are close to me; when you are so close to me. Contradictions, is that all I can offer you? I'm afraid I may not be able to keep my promise, Christine. Because I remember your hand in mine, and I remember so fondly your willingness to descend into my shadows. I remember your eyes; I remember your gaze locked in mine. I remember your fragility, and I remember how I showed you comfort; I remember how you accepted it. But it was your hand it mine; it was your undying trust; it was that illumination in your eyes. What was that, Christine?
Because for me, that day, those moments; that was the single most delicious thing I have ever had the blessing to experience. It was a first chance, my only chance! It infuriates me how easily it slipped away. What I wouldn't give to feel you close, Christine. But it is not enough to wish; it is not enough to vow empty sacrifices. What good is a sacrifice if it only serves as my own release? Give me another chance; oh, how wonderful it would be to have one more try to make you feel the beauty in my darkness (I know it's there.) If only you could see me! Turn away from the gilded world you know and taste the honesty of what I can offer you. Though I can see how hollow glamour may be more appealing than the fetid authenticity I must revel in.
Forget it, dear. I know not what I say.