I’d like to know what’s going on with the photographs of mine that you have. We didn’t really cover that the other night (if we did, I forgot). Will you be sorting them and just sending me what are mine and what you think I want, or will I be arranging to pick up the pile and sort thru them on my time, then return the remainder to you?
I ask this because we left it open ended, as we did meeting up again, and I need to make both issues closed. I thought I would hate seeing you the other night, and I did. In part, because some of me loved it so much. It wasn’t bad, it was bearable and in a lot of ways pleasent. But the aftermath of Monday night is still wreaking havoc with me.
I’ve done well these last few months, I’ll admit. But I’ve not done as well as you have; it hurt to hear about how happy you are, with your active social life, your half dozen lovers, your bliss. It hurt to hear how quickly you adjusted to this new life and lack of me. And it hurt to realize how much I still love you.
You mentioned wanting to be friends. When my friends hear this, they ask me what I want. The answer is very simple, really – and impossible to have granted. I want my lover, my husband, my marriage. Yes, still. And yes, I know that’s not possible. And I also know it’s not possible to be friends, either. Maybe it’s the last vestiges of stubbornness, or of needing to hurt you, I don’t know. But I feel that you can’t have your cake and eat it, too. You chose to not rebuild things with me, you knew this would be choosing to not have me in your life, and you chose it. I can’t take that back for you.
We were sitting in Azteca 8 months ago; one of many efforts you made that I didn’t see. You asked me if I loved you, and I was afraid. I was hurting, and afraid you would hurt me. And I didn’t tell you yes, when I should have. Although I wish I could, I can’t take that back, either.
And I can’t be your friend. I want to, I wish I could so that I could still have some of you in my life. But I know it would stab me like a knife, every time I heard you talk of your loves and life and how happy you are without me there. I’ll doubt more and more if you ever loved me, and it will carve me up inside.
I miss you, I miss you terribly. I miss your mind, your laughter, your touch. I miss your vivaciousness, your music, your passion for politics, your inability to make a consistent dinner and the great food you did make. I miss holding your hand at the movies, trying new places to eat. There’s so much I don’t miss, and so much I do.
I want you back in my life, I want to hear your voice more often than every few months. But I can’t handle the pain that comes with only knowing you from arms distance. And the fact that the same pain doesn’t affect you just makes it worse.
You can see by this too long letter and my babbling just what seeing you has done to me. I want to see you again, touch your hand and hug you. Sit across a table and eat and talk. And I’ll keep hurting like this after seeing you, and still wanting to do it yet again. I can’t do this to myself. I hope you understand that.
I wish you nothing but the best, Mars.
All my love,