“What, darling, what is it?”
I know your tears all so well, see them far too often now. They nearly are you.
I want to tell you to lie beside me, to take my hand, to thrill me as you once did in happiness.
I want to tell you to hold on for the ride of your life–it will be grand!–but I feel your grip loosen as I swing higher. Finally, you let go.
I miss you. I feel a joy in life that you seem unable to find, anywhere, and I worry about you. And yet, I cannot let go of life in the way you seem so resolved to doing.
“Ubi nihil vales, ibi nihil velis.”
This you tell me–“Where you are worth nothing, there you want nothing.”–and I wonder where you will go. Where could you possibly be worth nothing?
“Live!” I want to say to you, and in one space I fear that you will not live, or that you wander among the walking dead, breathing and moving, but never again touching love, touching life.
Desire defined us. I thought that the closeness of fantasies realized would bring you happiness, but instead it brings you despair, as though you feel that the nearer you come to that sublime, sunshining moment, the more remote it becomes.
Or perhaps I have it all wrong. Perhaps you find the sublime in the longing. Perhaps you swing even wilder than I do, clinging to despair, venturing into the underworld now forever.
Oh, my love, my love. I miss you, but I am tethered to the hope and happiness in this world–I reach for the sublime in feeling the limits of being, not in nothingness.
I love you, but I live.