I miss you.
I know I begged you to take me deeper into your mysteries. I can’t, and won’t, fault you for doing as I asked. I’m not sorry at the things I’ve discovered, about you, about myself, about us. I know that my missing you is as much my own doing as yours — more, even, because I miss the you I knew so well, which is partially obscured by this stranger before me, and also, I miss being in your presence, and I deny myself that simply because I don’t recognize all of you any longer.
I realize that this is because you are offering even more of yourself to me. I know your . . . Excitement is the wrong word, and it’s not trepidation, either. Eagerness suggests that you gain something from this, and perhaps you do. Do we not feel whole, when we know a loved one is seeing us, truly seeing us, and accepting us? Is your kind so different from us that you would not feel the same?
I am tempted by shame. I am tempted to wrap it around me like a shield, like a cloak, like something to hide beneath, to avert my eyes, to close my heart, to not go forward. I’m disappointed in myself, though you tell me not to be, because I see you, I see you in this stranger before me, I see our history, and I see your love, and still I miss you. I miss you, and you are standing before me, arms open, heart open. How can I deny this?
But I am mortal. I am weighed down by mortal concerns, and this, on top of all those, is . . . Maybe not too much, but certainly bordering upon it. I do not want, right now, for what we have to be work. I do not want, right now, for this to be a struggle.
I miss the ease of connecting with you. I miss the ease of being loved by you. Take me deeper, yes, please, but if you might, descend more slowly. Let me adjust to the pressure, to the weight. Let us descend slowly enough that I can experience what each fathom has to teach me of you.
Guilt, too, because did I not beg for this? Did I not plead? Did I not desire this, and then I say, yes, but not like that, like this instead. Except, you refuse to allow me this shame, or this guilt. “Are we not walking this together, you and I?” you ask. You have not walked this path with me before now, you tell me, and we are learning together as we go. Equals in this, if in nothing else, and equally bumbling at times.
How can I expect ease and grace from myself, when you do not expect these things from yourself, and in fact, demand that I see your bumblings. Should my self-imposed standards truly be more than what I expect from you?
I am doing my part. I have been dragging my feet, but I am doing my part. I’ve set aside what I could of the ‘should-be-doings’ and ‘should-be-this-way’s and ‘what is wrong with me?’ The boundaries and barriers I’ve needed to establish, I have. I’ve embraced the distance and time and space and semi-solitude I’ve needed to, and I’ve immersed myself in what I know of you, of me, of us.
I don’t wish you to be as you were. I don’t wish to go back. I know there is trouble in my rooting you so firmly into a name and a history and a place, when you insist you are more, when you demand that we be adrift, together. I simply miss you. Please. Please.
I’ll gather to me what you give to me. I’ll cherish — I do cherish — what you share with me. I will not deny you. I will not retreat. Let me always be the one to race into the incoming tide. Let me always be caught up in your currents. Let me drown, in you.
But, my beloved, may we do this more slowly? May we not spend more time together, in quiet, in solitude, in sanctuary? May we not simply be?
I ask this, and I see you waiting. I feel your sardonic amusement. “I’ve been waiting,” your presence seems to say. “May we not, indeed?”
Ah, my beloved. For your tolerance, for your love, for your steadfastness, I am helpless before you. I love you.