I just had found someone to share myself with, who shared himself as hard as he could for as long as he could stand to.
The hardest thing is feeling like I have no one to share that part of myself with now.
He loved himself more.
He loved me more than all his books, Bulworth, and directing plays.
He loved me more than he had loved anyone or anything in his entire life.
And then he didn't.
And sometimes the back of my neck or my scalp will feel the same way as it did then and I think about taking photos, and turning on the air conditioning in Toni and Glen's house, sitting in the passenger's seat, and waiting to be the only one who knew what he was writing about. I'm so lucky to have these kinds of things, these little little things still alive in there in my brain. Now I've read the book I would stare at the spine of day after sacred day of laying in that south side bed. I don't cry for days and think it'll all be better, and then can't sleep at night or write and suddenly tears are back and I don't want any more of them. I don't.
To ever fall this deep deep in love again seems so unattainable. No amount of online dating [that I won't do], or searching for someone [that I also won't do] will give me what I had. It was pure, and new, and beautiful. It was everything I ever wanted. It was what I still want. I know that this, right now, will define the rest of my life in one way or another.
