I am lightheaded and clumsy. I feel as light as a flake of snow. But then my head, as if to mock me, will grow heavy and remind me that I am grounded to this spot. I've not been ill in a long while. Perhaps I'm only tired. But, Christine, I do not wish to sleep! Even if it would alleviate all of these ailments ("all"? Why do I speak as if there are many? Only my head aches), I would not rest. Need I say what one thing would serve as my antidote? Ah, but you would not know of my illness. Is this an illness? Oh, how my head throbs; it sends resonating echoes through my skull. I do wish I could speak to you, dearest. One is not meant to keep emotions and questions (unanswerable as they may be) pent up behind whatever wall it is I've built.

Is it not ironic – an architect who builds such refined and precise structures has built such a faulty, swaying wall. Maybe that's what's breaking down behind my eyes; I can certainly feel each individual brick (is it made of brick?) totter and fall into my core, where it crumbles and leaves me covered in dust. If only I could speak to you; only for a moment. Just to hear your voice; just to see you smile. Oh, to see you smile at me, for me; to see you and know you see only me, too. I am so selfish, Christine. I would ask forgiveness, but what good is it? Why create another question to rot, unanswered, in my already ill head? Would you forgive me? Would you see past my sins; would you take my hand and tell me all is well? I do it for you, silently and secretly in my mind, though you do not need it. You are well.

Oh, how I wish it were a lie.

Come be ill with me, Christine. Share this ache in my head; stop it from spreading to my heart. I have no words to describe how pleasant that thought is. Hand in hand, we could stand (for I do long to feel your hand in mine, more than anything) and we could fall victim, together, to whatever has chosen to overcome us; to forsake us.

Perhaps it's true that misery loves company, but I want only your company, Christine, only yours.

Sometimes I wonder if I am only weak because I keep myself so distanced; I refuse to infringe on your happiness. I do long to mar the pristine harmony you have created with that boy; I long to corrupt you and force you to see that that same beauty can be found in darkness. But alas, unlike that simple young man you seem so fond of, I am a gentleman. Pity.

Forgive me (oh, but here we go again). Perhaps he, too, is a gentleman. Perhaps he knows you better than anyone; perhaps he loves you. His lips certainly find your own quite often enough. My, how could I have been so blind? Of course he loves you.

…

No, of course I do not smirk; I do not roll my eyes. But I wonder how deep his love for you is? As deep as the fetid water in my mug?

I'm sorry, my dear. A certain quote comes to mind – "The only evil in the world is that which we do not understand." Perhaps it's true. I do not understand that boy, after all.

But of course, I never claimed to be more than he. Never claim to be more than what you can show, yes? Living by the philosophies that destroy me – is it any wonder I give myself headaches? I guess I will never understand. How can he proclaim his undying love for you when he would not recognize you –when you were but a face in the crowd? Because you see, Christine, I am all too aware of you; your voice is, of course, one in a million. I don't know what love is (perhaps I lie); no one does. But God, I hope it's more than those simple gestures he makes.

I would like to give him a certain gesture.

I will bedevil you no more, Christine. I will do what I always do – fall to my knees and pray that God will show you darkness, or that he will show me light. Or at least let me feel it.

I long to feel something other than purportless hope. But seeing you renders me insensate, and I can't bring myself to sweep you into darkness.

Curse you, love.