... I fell in love. I have never faltered since. If anything, this relentless pounding of fists at my chest has grown even more intense, threatening to break flesh, to draw blood. But like a wildcat caged for far too long, this love eventually realized the futility of its wildness, submitting to a madness that transcended both movement and sound -- a paralyzing burden of knowing.
Four years ago, I triumphed at life. Despite years of doubt, of a seemingly endless cycle of loss, of skipping on fragile little islands of hope, I won. Four years ago, I won. And since then, that is how the rest of my life has been measured -- through the haze of memory, through gaping wounds, through errant shards of fantasy. Memory rises in the distance like an ivory tower diminishing with every step, carving its own malevolent space in my field of vision even as I move further. Not once did I ever stray, nor did I look away. A slight turn of the head, a wayward eye, and immediately a gouging sensation would wrack my body, as if the scene would seem lacking in some way and my flesh hungers for recompense. So always, I turn back to the memory. To you.
Your face -- the pallor of your cheeks, the steel in your eyes, the smell of summer grass in your hair -- together hold a certain gravitas, a solidity like banded muscles, real and unyielding, to every excruciating minute after the last time we saw each other. Never a day goes by that I do not think of my hands on your body, my lips on your flesh, my heart on your heart. And no, I can't imagine spending what's left of my life any other way. (Not for lack of trying, but doing so felt... wrong and hollow. Like reading a book upside down or losing gravity.) Foolish, some may call me -- and indeed some have -- but I regret nothing. Four years ago, I fell in love, and I am in love still. I hope you are, too. Happy birthday.
