How does one endure such distance? Is it true that you have grown to hate me? How would I know otherwise? As I am left with no more than the memory of a kiss so torturous it burns my very soul. Am I no more to thee than is a ball of string unto a cat? Dare I trust the pounding of mine own heart, which has betrayed me at most every turn? I would not be so brave, not here in this place where I am drowning in my own head.
Dare I seek council? If though would tell me so, that it be by need, then perhaps I might consider it, if only in passing. Oh, but what great fear comes to rest upon me in the consideration of the pity of one who would bid me speak only to look upon me as though I knew not what I had said. Verily, I know what I say. All the world would label me mad, twist my truths to suit their persecution of me, and, being so outnumbered, I would surely doubt my own heart. Were it not for the ever too fleeting moments of solace that I have felt in that arms of one whose heart I feel is half my own, your heart, I would have found means to perish centuries before this. I ask you, am I without my wits? Am I, without reason? ‘Tis only you would know and whom I would risk belief in.
And if it be that thou hath not grown to despise me, then I would not ask forgiveness for this act, but bid thee pray for me, my Lord. I am honest in my words and deeds, though often naïve and too quick to move. I am honest. I would not be the one to betray you, I would not. ‘Tis truly the most ogre-some and merciless of gods that holds my suffering now.
How is it that I should find myself so cursed with the need of one who would rather see me mad than speak his own true heart? What soul does deserve such a fate? If it is so that I have been wrong about thee then I will pray for mine own self, for how will I ever be right about a thing again?
Be you well then, my Lord, if thou can be so without this love, then it was not love. Is your emotion truly no match for my own? If so, then I would be no better whispering sweet lies with every ounce of my being to a stranger from the street. Let there be no more marriage indeed. I have been left to wither like a rose too long on the vine without benefit of water, too long without the warmth of the sun.
1995, Red Line Wine