Sunday, Jun. 08, 2003 - 12:16 a.m.

I am weak.

I hate myself for this. I want to draw you into my arms, and for you to confess all of your pain and heartbreak, but you elude me, and try as I might, I can't catch up. Your heart beats too quickly, and I can't step between it and this world, and negotiate the passage for you so that each step isn't like a stake into the guardian of your future happiness.

You must live again. And love. I will break all the rules of friendship, and contract it so that on the altar that contains everything I mean to you, and you to me, whatever future we have together is cut short. I will end it. I won't see you again. Only one condition. Live again, love, do all this without my saying a word. Iris, heal thyself. I cannot do it with these mere hands.

I would come to you and stay by thy side in thy most need. I am not much more than an everyman. Except in Spirit. Spirit, Spirit, blessed Hegelian spirit that wishes to envelop and guard you. Damn my nature. You do not want of this cup. You want to forget, or lash out, or smile dimly, but I cannot facilitate any of this. According to you, it is none my task, not ever.

I crack under the pressure. The walls fall in quickly, your room and mine is a feast of dust. And while you sleep soundly, I lay awake wondering. Why me? Why the pain in your breast? What may I do to cease it. Powers of seduction are not called for. The power of my will is too weak. And the gods of persuasion have abandoned me.

You are more to me than I can state in words. A living exemplar of all that is that should be. A poisoned valentine of hope.

Eli, eli, lema sebachtani?

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