You play a symphony into my ribs. Pulsing veins that branch like Catatumbo lightning. Spiraling into an everlasting storm – following a river of hues like Caño Cristales. You are not easily accessible, but God, the way you open up to me.
Fields of lavender in Provence. The blue and gold sparks of the sun and sky. Even that afternoon we got caught in that rainstorm. I took Sean’s hand and ran into the nearest coffee shop. (Two hot chocolates and one donut). I could feel the wholeness of it all. The weight of it all. Sean leaning against me. Me leaning against you. (Love must live here).
There is not much I can say at this point. You have made up your mind. And acceptance is much harder to find than I thought. I have muddled up the first four stages of grief. Silk pillowcases of denial, hot coals of anger – so much anger – 4 a.m. prayers to God, and then a four shots of vodka kind of depression. I don’t want to believe it. When the way you held me at night, pressed yourself into my spine, and whispered into the splitting ends of my hair – you knew I was in love with you.