“To Denise, With All My Love”
If there’s a tissue in your vicinity, I suggest you reach out and cradle it in your palm. Upon reading this, tears may well be in the offing.
I’m leaving stateside.
To be quite honest, I haven’t a clue whose shore on which I’ll land. I’ve simply unfurled my sail and rendered my life to the mercy of the most forgiving wind. Seeking a literary safe haven am I. A strange yet unhostile place which will accept a wounded, far-from-empty love letter scribe.
I’m not certain which economy around the world will support a driven romance composer, let alone reward him. Call it a mindless crap shoot. But there’s little to lose I’ve reckoned. The dice, as I write this, shake in my right hand and are on the precipice of a hearty, careless toss and roll.
Fall and rest where they may. I’ve come to the only conclusion: I must go.
God, I can feel the tenderly soft texture of your forehead against the interior of my thoughtful hands. The pillowcase fragrance derived from your unblemished facial skin stubbornly resurrects in the darkness of nights of my aloneness—even after countless washes.
That verse of Sade’s Nothing Can Come Between Us you let go of before catching yourself, it still brings me an endless joy. You never sang it again. Oh, sure you have, in your own presence, shunning the spotlight so shyly. But I caught that one . . . in its purest moment. And I finished the lyric. Do me a favor, would you? Don’t sing it to anyone else. It’s my eternal keepsake.
I’ve prided myself on being an honorable man. Flawed, human, fallible, imperfect, like all the men walking this earth. But honorable.
Is there a country for honorable men?
Honorable men who write romance? If so, I’m en route. Somewhere, some place I’ll land. With my laptop. And if it’s some off-the-map archipelago, with no electric juice, a pen and memo pad.
I’m afraid, Denise. My father’s in heaven. My grandfather’s in heaven. I can’t seek their counsel. They’ve scaled their own treacherous mountaintops. And neither was a romance writer.
I don’t wish my craft upon any man. I swear, the romance-writer pursuit is the most difficult of any human endeavor. Albert Einstein devised the atom bomb . . . that destroyed and deformed thousands of lives. I bet if you asked him to instead write romance for a living, he wouldn’t touch it.
Yet here I find myself. Writing my life into a hopeful relevance, lest I die a broken man. I can’t carry you into this anchorless, rudderless abyss of an existence. You deserve so very much more. I can’t do that to you.
I’m afraid. Of the unknown. And yet, I’m utterly fearless . . . because my life is in my savior’s hands.
Forgive me my instability. I can’t allow a woman to carry me. Somewhere between pride and character, I can’t ride your compassion. You too are finding your way.
I have no idea what’s in store for me. Whichever continent will have me, desperation accompanies me. Bring it on. I’ve nothing to lose.
Except you. I’ve reconciled that possibility with the treatment that you’ve experienced only from this romance writer. My life is out of my own hands, Denise. And, strangely, no one understands that more clearly than you.
God, I miss you already. And I haven’t even reached foreign landfall.
I’m leaving stateside. I can’t stay. I must go.
As God is my witness, I’m taking your love with me.
Romance will survive. -Rg2
© 2017 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®