Actually, I have a lot more to say.

(all good, i promise)

Stay tuned…

*Also, see below 📩

— D

T —

I love you.

I will always love you.

I will stand by you in my heart.

— D

I had a meal tonight that made me cry from beginning to end.

The simplest things moved me the most.

The butter — suspended — dusted with diamond salt.

The bread — hot — that tasted like a field.

An old, fine wine I’d never had before, from a grape I’d never heard of before, grown on ancient vines and crushed in a winery carved into a mountainside.

Everything tasted like where it came from, as if it took you to where it grew.

Each flavor raised memories and emotions, sweet and bitter, that lasted longer than you could believe.

I literally had to hold back through the entire meal.

I thought of movies you watch again and again even though they break you.

(For me, Iron Giant — why do cartoons about robots always fuck you up?)

Unlike films, meals too quickly become irretrievable, only memories.

Yet they never leave you. They change you, stay with you, become part of you — permanent feasts.

In years you can ask –Remember that? and it all comes back to you as if it just happened.

(I walked out, feet above the floor, with a smile that simply would not fade.)

See? — I’ve just relived it by telling you.

— E

*Forgot one thing.

In real love:

—they stand by you, no matter what

— D

Y —

I admit, I “reflect” a little a too much. It comes honestly, the habit of both an introvert and an intellect. So I thought I would try a descriptive approach this time.

(You’ll see why I never do this.)

I’ll start at the beginning. I wake up each morning around 6:30 a.m. I live in Los Angeles but work for a New York City agency, so my work day starts at 10:00 a.m. EST or 7:00 a.m. PST.

Actually, I wake up around 5:30 a.m. each day but just lie in bed half awake, half asleep for that hour — yes, you guessed it — reflecting on things.

Around 6:30 a.m. each day — still in bed — I do a quick scan of social media, check my email, then land on the New York Times.

(I am obsessed with politics and have been ever since high school. I may have mentioned, I once seriously considered becoming a diplomat.)

I read through as much of the newspaper as I can before my daily, morning team conference call — which I take from bed, with my camera off of course.

After the call (where we discuss all the job priorities for the day) I make an Americano using the fussiest espresso machine ever made. (It’s Italian, of course, and constantly needs maintenance.) My grinder, too.

I typically have 3-4 coffees each morning. I don’t have breakfast, or lunch. Instead, I have a small snack around 2:00 p.m. before I go to the gym. The coffee fills me up so I’m not hungry.

With my first morning coffee, I usually have a cigar. People like to have whisky with cigars typically (I prefer rum) though neither of those make for a healthy breakfast.

(As far as coffee beans are concerned, I despise African beans. I love beans from the Americas, especially Guatamala Antigua. My favorite blend I always buy in Santa Barbara from this boutique coffee shop.)

(As far as cigars are concerned, I detest Dominicans and Hondurans. I love Nicaraguans — Nicaraguan filler, binder, and wrapper. They taste of coffee, chocolate, and nuts, the feeling of being warm on a cold winter day.)

When work is busy, I can work from 7 to 2 or 3 or 4 without any sort of break. When work is not busy, I work on my own creative projects, constantly switching between my “work” and “personal” laptops.

(I actually have three “personal” laptops — a MacBook Air and two Chromebooks. I don’t know why but I feel less distracted when writing on a Chromebook, which I”m doing right now.)

After work I hit the gym. I had a personal trainer for a couple of years so I know how to build my own work out routines.

I used to box until I hurt my shoulder and I used to bike until I broke my knee. I still do both though, occasionally. I have excellent cardio. I could do a full 12 rounds of boxing easily. I think I still can.

Usually I buy groceries after the gym. I never know what I want to eat until the moment just before so I never shop in advance. I love grocery stores. I almost never go to the same one twice in a row.

I’ve recently gotten back into going to farmer’s markets, which are like flea markets with produce.

Weekends I sleep in. I love doing laundry, especially folding clean clothes and putting them away. I fold Marie Kondo-style. Did you know she stole her folding technique from the US Navy?

I love washing dirty dishes but I hate putting clean dishes away. Is that weird? Everybody tells me that’s weird. I don’t think so. It feels more satisfying to me. I feel more accomplished.

Maybe I have always just loved doing the dirty work.

You will never have to wash a dirty dish again.

(That’s my small gift to you.)

I also obsess over my beard, usually on Sunday. I use three clippers and two razors to get it right. I confess, I model mine after Ernest Hemingway. He had flair so I don’t apologize for it.

Sunday nights are also for complicated dinners. I can spend the whole afternoon preparing dinner. I look forward to cooking all day, any day. It relieves my stress.

When I cook, I am completely in the moment. It is — besides writing and smoking — where I am. I feel completely free and completely myself. I love that feeling and I love all those activities for that reason.

(I love grocery stores so much in fact that I actually created a playlist on Spotify of songs all about grocery stores. To be honest, I’m more proud of that than most things I have done.)

These days, after dinner, I will have a second cigar. Although I love cigars, I’m not too proud of smoking so much. I have been pretty stressed out lately, so I’m not judging myself for it and allowing it for now. I will cut back though.

Once I’ve finished smoking (and I smoke down to the very end where I literally burn my fingers each time) I move on to the highlight of my day — movie time.

I have a ton of streaming services. It often takes me a while to figure out what I want to watch, way too long sometimes. I usually am “in the mood” for a particular kind of movie and have to find one that fits.

I have cut back on my movie watching only because I want to increase my movie writing. I’ll write afterwards — sometimes for a little while and sometimes for a long while.

I used to stay up late (until 3 or 4 in the morning) but now that I have to get up early for work I have to get to bed before 1 a.m. Sometimes I don’t though.

When I had my old house, I converted my “garage” into a writer’s room. I’d stay up into the early morning hours writing and smoking with the window by my desk open onto the back yard. (I miss those days.)

Oh, before I forget, one of my favorite things is to watch movies with my friend Sarah long distance. I ‘m not sure how that got started but we will watch together and text together throughout the film.

It really, truly is one of the things I cherish most.

Actually, what I cherish most is Sarah herself. We met over 10 years ago when we both actively blogged. We had a rocky start. I think she chewed me out over something, anyway, we got into a huge fight.

We then didn’t talk for months. Then, I think simultaneously, we both apologized to each other and asked if we could start over. (Thank God) She is more than a friend to me; she is like a sister.

This isn’t a letter about Sarah but I have to say, I honestly don’t know what I would do, what I would have done, without her. I trust her completely and can trust her with anything — there is no judgment, ever.

She has seen me at my best (which happens occasionally) and my worst (which happens more often). She is a spark of joy in my life and I am blessed to call her my friend.

(Oh and did I mention we are not in the least alike and I have no idea how we are friends at all? It makes no sense but it works. I could not possibly love her more.)

Sarah lives in Tacoma, and as a matter of fact, most of my closest friends live in different parts of the country, so I never see them in person — and I never, ever call anyone on the phone lol.

I do text like a madman though, that’s how I stay in touch with people. As a writer and introvert, I think texting is an absolute Godsend and total genius. I’m more comfortable in writing…

Actually, I was going to say I am more comfortable in writing than talking but that’s not true. I love talking to people (even strangers) one-on-one but I completely shut down in a group of 3 or more.

I’d make a great talk show host, think Charlie Rose. I actually love people and find them fascinating. What I love most though is human connection.

For example, I have this vintage watch. It looks expensive but I bought it for 40 dollars. I put it on a striped, nylon strap with my college colors, burgundy and white.

One day at the grocery store, the checkout girl complimented me on it, said it reminded her of her grandfather. I said, –This is a real watch, it ticks, hardly anything is real anymore.

She nodded and we both just pondered that thought for a moment. I live for that — when you can arrive at the same place with a total stranger and each learn something about each other.

I’m probably reading too much into it. She probably just thought I was a weird guy bringing up esoteric topics out of loneliness. Maybe both perspectives are true.

Skipping back a few thoughts, I don’t just write my own stuff at night. I literally write all day:

Some of it I type out on my laptop between jobs at work. Some of it I tap out on my phone whenever it pops into my head. (I am an obsessive not taker; I must have thousands of notes on my phone.)

Most of it, however, I write in my head and I just keep it there until I can write it down later.

Like this letter: most of it I wrote in my head while just going about my day today.

You wouldn’t think by looking at that guy sitting there, doing nothing, staring off into space constantly that there was actually anything happening but…

I’m really sleepy right now so I will end with one final thought.

There’s this book called A Little Life — I despise the book but I love the title.

That’s pretty much me: I have a little life but it makes me extremely happy and I love it so much.

I really, really do.

Like right now, for example.

— E

T

(jjb) — 

Since late ‘23, I have been in relationship.

With a hummingbird.

(An actual hummingbird.)

Let me explain.

∙

First, some facts. Hummingbirds:

—live only in the New World

—can fly in any direction, including backwards, and can hover (no other bird can do this)

—are fiercely territorial (it’s said, if hummingbirds were the size of cats, people would never leave their homes)

—have a war cry (by over-beating their wings, they can sound like a WW2 fighter plane)

—have enormous intellect and memory for their size

—are all “single mothers”

∙

For the spiritual, they can represent:

—messengers between the spiritual and physical world

—love, joy, beauty

—romance, passion

—spiritual growth/enlightenment

—prosperity for those it visits

—fearlessness, courageousness, and bravery

—playfulness

—a sense of wonder

∙

To avoid any confusion, my bird is not:

—a “sign from God”

—a coded message

—a metaphor for any relationship, past or present

—a commentary on parenting/mentoring/counseling/friendship

—a goodbye

—plenty of other things…

But a bird is never just a bird.

∙

(Just as I typed this, it came and checked up on me.)

∙

This one lives in my backyard.

About our relationship:

I sit. It flies.

I watch it. It ignores me.

Mostly.

Sometimes it buzzes my head like a kamikaze, so it knows I’m “there.”

Recently it even shat on me.

(I assume nothing personal.)

We have gotten very comfortable in each other’s presence.

It often hovers in front of me at eye level, about a foot or so away.

(I wonder if I put my finger out if it would sit on it.)

We are — as an English friend of mine used to say — “on the nod.”

∙

I never knew if it was a boy or a girl.

(I didn’t want to offend, so I never asked.)

Quickly I got my answer.

∙

One day, I noticed two needles resting on the edge of the nest.

Eventually, two tiny faces; four black, unblinking dots.

They faced the same direction, beaks parallel, eyeing mom.

They sat so still, unmoving — at first.

Over the next few days, one began to squirm.

It spun all around in the nest, practically sitting on its sibling.

It began blinking a lot, cocking its head, taking in everything.

(That one had ADHD.)

Meanwhile, the mother ceaselessly flew in patterns, continually chirping, educating by example.

∙

When she wasn’t doing this, she sat a branch or two away from the nest, still and watchful.

∙

This went on for many days.

Then — moments after I took a picture of the squirmy one standing on the edge of the nest — it flew away.

The way they fly — they seem attached to some invisible Zip line.

The second bird (the runt) flew away two days later.

I didn’t get to see: when I checked, I saw just an empty nest.

The mother now comes once a week or less — though when she does she still buzzes my head.

I miss her.

(I’m a man lonely for a bird.)

This part of my life has ended.

∙

Usually a story I tell offers some meaning.

∙

Last night, as I lay in bed, I kept trying to figure out:

—Why tell this story? —What does it mean? —What does it mean to me?

I wasn’t sure.

∙

So I asked myself:

—What do I know? —How do I feel?

(Mainly, I know what I know by watching what I do and I know how I feel by watching what I think.)

Some answers, shortly…

∙

First, let me talk about chicken.

∙

I had been dating H for about two years when someone I knew murdered my close friend, stabbed her to death.

H hesitated dating me. She had just ended a long, complicated relationship with a woman.

We made an instant, fine pair though — happy, giddy, entwined.

We tumbled together like socks in a dryer, stalked the streets like a Bob Dylan and Suze Rotolo.

We had only the usual misunderstandings that people have when dating.

∙

After the murder though, I shut down emotionally.

I couldn’t admit vulnerability, couldn’t bear attachment.

I broke up with her, broke her heart.

(It would have ended in time — it was shallow love, not real love — but I wish it had ended better then.)

Our mutual friends chose sides — all hers — so I grieved alone and drank heavily.

In this one drama, the main character sleeps in a room full of empty alcohol bottles.

The room glows green from the glass.

I had the same room.

∙

(It was the first and last time I ever drank like that.

I needed to numb the pain, erase all thoughts.

Know that I’m a happy drunk: I laugh at everything then fall asleep.)

∙

Eventually I quit drinking.

Finally my head had become as clear and sparkling as a freshly washed glass bottle — my heart fully poured out.

I had dinner with H one last time.

We sat facing each other.

Suddenly she began to sob, then said

—You cut chicken beautifully.

∙

Two years later I dated V.

We lived together.

We’d buy groceries, come home, put them away.

I’d always buy whole chickens. It annoyed her.

With my arms around her waist from behind I’d say

—I’m going to chop your chicken, then I’d lead her to the bedroom.

∙

V and I lived on a continuum: we’d talk, laugh, cuddle, make love, cuddle, laugh, talk again.

All again, and again.

We accepted each other fully, charmed one another completely.

With her, I first experienced real love.

I experienced it before I could name it.

∙

In real love:

—you feel safe and protected

—you give each other freedom and you each feel free (if you do not let them be themselves, then who are you loving?)

—you feel seen for who you are and loved for who you are

—you reveal the goodness inside the other

—you transform their pain and nurture their peace

—you feel sure of yourself and of them

—you offer each other your joys: above all, you share your joys

∙

I’d never felt happier. Of course, I ruined it. I learned though:

Living is learning. Learning is loving. Loving is knowing.

∙

I’ve never understood when people say relationships are complicated, difficult, hurtful.

I have never experienced that, not once.

(I can’t even imagine it.)

Though I’ve dated women I didn’t like and married a woman I didn’t love — I found it all easy.

(My marriage lasted so long because I made a satisfying partner even though I never loved her.)

Relationships are my superpower.

I think I know why.

∙

When life crushes your bones and minces your guts — as it did mine — it makes you softer, gentler, warmer.

(If you let it.)

When you heal (you do heal) you understand everyone:

You love people because you know pain.

Pain invites love.

Pain needs love.

Love does, undoes.

Love heals.

∙

Now that I’ve told you all about the birds in my life, what about those questions?

I don’t need to answer them.

(you know)

Right now an enormous Monarch butterfly keeps circling me and a chameleon just ran past me, changing from lime green to cocoa brown.

(true true, all true)

I will absolutely not get into any of that though.

— D (fc)

Dear Susan:

If you would allow me, I’d like to tell you about four of the losses that I’ve experienced in my life.

(Else, feel free to tear or toss this letter now.)

The first that I can remember occurred in the first grade. I had a friend named Paul. It’s been a minute since I was in the first grade, so to be honest, the only thing I can specifically tell you about Paul — besides that he was my friend and we played together every day — was that he had light, red-brown wavy hair and he was always smiling. That’s the picture of him I carry around in my head, all these years later, his plaid shirt, his shock of hair, and his smile.

In first grade, my homeroom teacher was Ms. Nutt — yeah, everybody got a kick out of that. Plus she was Australian, plus she was a former airline flight attendant — all of which I thought was really cool, even back then. I loved Ms. Nutt. Everybody loved Ms. Nutt.  That morning at school, I remember her seeing her in the hallway outside our classroom, crying. Needless to say, I’d never seen a teacher crying at school before and I knew I didn’t want to know what was going on.

Nowadays, schools have all kinds of “protocols” and maybe they did back then too, so it surprised me when she said what she said —That Paul was hit by a car and killed a block away from school. I knew exactly where, too, because I’d see him cross the street at the big intersection that you could see from the playground. I thought that if I just walked to the end of the hall and looked out the fence I could probably see everything happening in real time. School was just about to start. I didn’t though.

I’m sure that this was the first death that had ever touched me directly. My parents were too cheap and too poor to even get us a pet, so I’d never even had a goldfish die. To be completely honest, I’m telling you what I remember of that time but I don’t remember how I felt, or what I felt, at that moment. I can tell you now though that I can see all of that happening as clearly as if I were watching it on television. I’m sure not a year has gone by that I haven’t thought about it at least once. What I think of is, —What would Paul be doing right now, if that never happened?

(He’d probably be an insurance salesman and annoying and I wouldn’t want to talk to him. But you never know. I’m sure someone somewhere thinks that about me, too.)

The second one I still try not to think about too much. This was in college. A close friend of mine was murdered — in a horrific, gruesome way. Providing any more detail than that would be inappropriate. My friend called me the same afternoon to ask me how I was doing. I said —I’m great, how are you? Obviously, I hadn’t heard yet. My roommate was annoyingly polite and diplomatic, always. He told me what happened, without any of the details that would go on to horrify and haunt me. I refused to believe, told him he was a sick mother-fucker for telling such a joke, and hung up.

She was a happy person too. I always remember her laughing and smiling. She would always be the first person to tell you to cheer up, that everything would be all right. Which was annoying. We had some stupid fight about some stupid something, and it was finals, so when I saw her in the Yard — that last time I ever saw or spoke to her — I was rude. The other thing about this friendship is that I don’t think anyone really knew how close we were. We had different friend groups that didn’t overlap, though we were friends individually. My friend who called me knew, maybe one or two other people.

Let’s see. I quickly ended the three year relationship I was in, even though we hadn’t had any problems except the usual ones people dating at this age have. I began drinking heavily and hardly left my room. Since no one knew we were close, no one thought to console me. I didn’t have the sense to get grief counseling, of course, of course. And because I’d broken up with my girlfriend, breaking her heart, all our friends took sides — mostly hers. So I had essentially lost all of our mutual friends. Because of the drinking, I don’t remember much of that year.

I saw a TV show where I guy — also dealing with trauma — had a room that glowed green from all the booze bottles he’d stash away there. I had that room too.

They say that drinking doesn’t solve anything but, for me, I think it eventually did wash away all the memories and feelings I had about that incident. Eventually I stopped drinking because I didn’t need it to forget anymore — it was gone. My head was as clear and sparkling as a freshly washed glass bottle. Something good did come out of this though. (And I’m not going to tell you about it, because that is another letter, and another answer to another issue.) I actually, finally, began writing a short film about the aftermath of this event. That’s my way of dealing — of turning this pain into a pearl.

So you know, the “good thing that came out of that” that I just mentioned above? That too became a loss, a trauma — though one entirely of my own making. In short, I met a girl — a great girl — and messed it up. I’ve read that rather than exorcise our demons we should befriend them. No, I think we should tame them like dogs, make them do tricks — stand on their hind legs on balls and balance balloons on their noses. I think we should teach them to go to the corner store, pick up a sick pack, and bring back the change. I think we should teach them to play dead. I don’t know.

The fourth loss, I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m ready to talk about yet.

I thought that by writing about the four primary losses in my life that I would arrive at something profound to say about loss. (Oh — I say “primary losses” because I can think of 6, 8, 12 more things right off the top of my head that I could add to this list — couldn’t we all though?) A childhood friend, a college comrade, a first love. Well first, they’re gone. Then, the part of our lives we’ve attached to them is gone. Third, the love is gone. We know we don’t get them back. Do we get ourselves back? Do we get the love back?

I started a new writing project recently. It was very dark. I wrote some things after being hurt that I don’t believe, but they helped extract the venom. I wrote “we love people to lose ourselves,” either right away or eventually. I wrote “we can’t beat love but love can sure beat us.” I wrote a bunch of stuff like that. There’s another quote — I love quotes — about “being stronger in the broken places,” which I think is true at least strictly from an orthopedic point of view. (Getting hurt is sure great for sparking quotes.) That last one is a good one.

I guess I can’t generalize. I can only say how I think these things have changed me — or at least have tried to change me. Which would be: I’ve tried to make something of my life, because I’ve been given one that hasn’t been cut short (so far). I’ve tried to be a better friend, because being a lousy friend is worse than not bothering. I’ve tried to think of every love as a “first love,” an undeserved gift, to be protected as best you are able. (I am just literally crying right now.)

So do we get ourselves back? No, I don’t think we do. We shouldn’t. It’s the new self that really matters, the self after the loss, if we’ve truly faced it. Do we get the love back? Yes, and no. We get love, not the same love, new love, but it’s not for us to keep — it’s for us to give. To give, and give, and give. Love kept is love killed. Breathe it in and breathe it out. Let it give you some life then let it turn the air. Let it give someone else life too.

I’m sure I could ramble on for another couple of pages but I’m going to end abruptly on what seems like a “high note.” Sorry that it took me 4 pages to get 1 paragraph that may have any value. Emphasis on “may.” You are certainly not alone. The Republic of Loss has open borders, I’m told. May you find happiness and peace, and little bit of contentment each and every day.

Very sincerely yours: David Aaron

(A part of the More Love Letters project.)

Sarah, my dearest, closest friend,

The other day a hummingbird flew up to me, took a shit, then sped off. I’ll try not to read too much into that.

I always try to write beautiful letters, but I won’t this time. Maybe the harder I try, the less believable they are?

(Every letter I’ve written has been sincere though.)

Anyway, I have known you for 10 years now so you know that I would never lie to you.

I can’t believe we just came full circle on our blogs too — so weird!

(Did we really meet through our blogs??)

I may repeat myself but in order for you to understand what I’m going to tell you, I’ll need to remind you of some things about me.

In one of my favorite movies, the protagonist whispers his confession into a hole in a tree then seals it up. Sarah, let me whisper in your ear…?

I believe everyone in life is given a certain set of “challenges” to overcome. Call them whatever you like.

(I think they’re meant to make us stronger in the ways we need to be.)

I know mine pretty clearly by now. I don’t want to bore you so I’ll try to cut to the chase!

(Movie terms, lol.)

One thing I’ve learned: Sometimes you can try to solve problems with other problems. I know I have done that.

I have been a very lonely person all my life.

Ironically, you don’t know how lonely you really are until you meet someone who makes you feel less lonely.

(More on that in a minute.)

Loneliness is one of the challenges I have had to overcome — in obvious and unobvious ways.

Two other challenges I have had/have are:

— feeling like I’m nobody/nothing

— feeling like I’m ugly, inside and outside

Something struck all these raw nerves like a sledgehammer recently. That’s part of what I want to tell you about.

(Incidentally, I broke a bone in my foot a while ago. It healed, but sometimes it feels exactly like I just broke it.

I think our feelings behave in the same way. We think they’ve healed, but the pain comes back once in a while.)

So I said sometimes you try to solve problems with other problems. For me, I always do the same two things:

— I act overconfident/I come on too strong

— I try too hard

(I also suffer from huge emotions that drag me around like wild dogs.)

It’s no surprise: I’m an overachieving, first born, Type A, Harvard graduate with a hyperactive intellect and imagination.

This often gets me into trouble. People think I’m a jerk or asshole, that I’m arrogant or insincere — you name it.

Here’s where I may repeat myself but I think it will help you understand what I really want to tell you about.

Because I felt so lonely, insecure, and ugly, I married the first person who came along and accepted me.

(Even though I was in love with someone else.)

I was terrified I’d never find someone and that I’d be alone for the rest of my life.

I was aware of this even when I was standing at the altar saying my vows. At that moment I was thinking of the woman who I truly loved.

Of course, I had broken up with the woman I truly loved because:

I felt I was nobody, worthless, and ugly and that she would be better off without me.

There is more to this. Also, I panicked:

I was so terrified of receiving love and being happy — of getting that happy ending I always dreamed about — that I simply ran away from it.

(This is all true, Sarah. I wish it weren’t.)

Of course, I ended my marriage. It was more painful living with someone I didn’t love than it was being alone.

I divorced when I finally reconnected with the woman that I loved and faced what I had been ignoring all along: I was living a lie.

(As a very romantic and creative person, I often confuse fiction with reality. Though not this time. More on that in a minute!)

I spent a long time “working on myself” afterwards. I read every book I could find on:

—relationship building

— attachment styles

— personality types

— communication styles

— childhood trauma/sexual abuse

— love

I also spent a long time in therapy, mostly through my church.

I felt better, stronger — not fixed but more me — I felt good and good about myself.

I think a lot of it comes down to knowing where the mines lay and avoiding them. (*KA-BOOM*)

No, this didn’t solve the loneliness — or the other backwards ways I tried to fix that — but it helped me live well.

As I said before, you don’t know how lonely you truly are until you meet someone who makes you feel less lonely.

Sarah, this is where I tell you I met someone — and I went a little crazy again. I promise you I just couldn’t help it.

I was watching a movie the other day (the one I told you about that we have to watch together) and there was this line in it:

—You were looking for love…in the only foolish way you knew how.

I think that describes what I did perfectly.

This quote also comes to mind:

—If your only tool is a hammer, you treat every problem like a nail.

My only tool is a pen.

So I wrote her a lot of letters… I am the carbon copy of Cyrano de Bergerac.

I felt like I’d always known her.

It may be because, like you say, —If all time is happening in the same moment all the time … maybe I did know her once.

Or it may be because I have “followed” her since 2016. (Really, I checked!)

(Here’s where I have to use a cliché: I honestly think she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I actually have proof of this:

In my old bookmarks I found one of her posts from 2017 and I labeled it “The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

This is all true.)

She is so much more beautiful now.

Or it may be because when you are lonely for a certain someone for so long, when you finally meet them you feel like you know them already.

I know I always want to know her.

(Get ready for a lot of clichés because I don’t know how else to tell you how I truly feel about her.)

Every time I see her face everything disappears and I feel happy and at peace. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.

(If you could see her face, it eclipses them all — Gish, Shearer, Masina, Bergman, any of them, all of them. I have no words.)

She delights me. She makes every cell of my being smile.

When I think about her I feel this fierce protective instinct — I never want anything bad to happen to her, ever.

I want to protect her from everything that could hurt her. I want her to have the happiest life possible.

(I’m the lion who can’t eat the lamb — I’d rather stare at it and starve than harm it. It’s too precious.)

Like a flower to the sun, when I think of her my heart and soul open up.

Like a guy wrapping his coat around a girl so she’ll feel warm, I want to wrap my soul around her so she’ll feel loved.

I like her for what she is but I love her for who she is.

What makes her truly beautiful is the way everything within her comes to the surface.

I may be the only man in the world who has fallen in love with a woman because of her writing.

I love what she says and how she says it. I love what she thinks and how she thinks it. I love what she is and who she is.

Exactly as she is.

Reading her writing is like watching sunlight stream through shattered, flawed, stained glass — it is more beautiful.

I fall in love with her all over again every time I read something she has written.

If our writing is not the very best of us, then it is the clearest picture of us.

Her soul lives on each page.

I feel like I can feel all she feels.

It makes me smile, laugh, cry, think, and love. It makes me love her.

It’s like I’m pressing my face against the glass wall of an enormous aquarium. It is overwhelming and beautiful. Another world.

No, it’s like asking someone if they like art, then taking them to the Louvre. It’s like receiving everything all at once.

(I don’t know if I want to be with her or be her.)

She is brilliant in a way all her own.

It is literally breathtaking.

I want to know her down to the bone. I want her to know me like that too.

Knowing is loving.

(Everyone speaks love like everyone speaks movies.)

Do I sound crazy? I don’t think this is crazy at all.

If you are not in love with a person’s soul, you are not in love with them at all.

I fell in love with her soul.

I keep falling in love with her soul.

I had a friend in college. She would say something, then I would say 5 somethings back, then she would say 25 somethings back, on and on.

Sarah, I have only ever experienced this before once in my life but she moves and inspires me more than that.

She starts wildfires in my brain.

(Is it wrong to think that together there might be no limits to how far we could go?

That we might be better together — go farther together — than either of us could separately?

And also have more fun?

I wonder…)

I heard this is in a TV show and thought it described me:

—Was he born to love me or something?

I think I was born to love her.

(Sometimes I can’t tell if I have too little faith or far too much.)

I don’t know why she shut me out.

(Is it because I’m a nobody, worthless, and ugly?

I’m afraid of being those things, but I’m not.)

Did I make her think I wanted to keep her like a bird in a cage?

I wanted to be her gardener, just that.

I wanted to watch her flourish and help her, here and there.

I wanted to share things we both loved.

I know my feelings don’t entitle me to anything. Love can’t buy love, yet…

If she has any feelings for me at all, or even if she thinks she might, I hope she will give this a chance.

I hope she will give me a chance.

(No pressure. No deadlines.)

Does she think that because she has struggles that she will make me miserable?

She will only make me miserable by staying away.

(She has no idea how many people in my life have struggles just like hers. I attract them. It’s practically a requirement for knowing me!)

If she says —I’m a mess, I’ll say —Me too. Everyone is.

You love who you love.

This is what the love is for.

I love her just as she is.

I wanted to tell her someday:

—What I want most is for you to be healthy, happy, productive, and fulfilled.

—I will fight for you and with you, by your side, every single day for that.

—I will always put your wellbeing above my own.

(Although I don’t see why we both couldn’t thrive.)

Which brings me to this:

I have always wanted a rich, deep, passionate love, a love of the soul, of one soul for another soul.

At first I wanted it to fill the void I have had, of never having felt truly loved.

(Of course I know you cannot fix that that way. I know the right way to fix that now.)

Later I found what made me happier (what I wanted more than anything) was not to be truly loved by someone but to truly love someone.

I would much rather be the one who loves the other more.

I want to love someone so much that their whole life feels like a dream. That they say in the end, they could not possibly have been any happier.

I have so much love to give and I want to give it to someone:

Someone who could really use it. Someone who might truly need it.

Which brings me to her:

I have never felt about anyone in my life before the way I feel about her.

(Yet another reason I went a little crazy.)

I am just an ordinary man — ordinary looks, ordinary intelligence, ordinary talent, ordinary income.

This is just an ordinary problem — a man who loves a woman who might not love him back.

It’s OK. I will never hurt her, myself, or anyone, whatever happens.

If I have learned anything in life, it is this:

—Love anyway.

No matter how hopeless or painful —love anyway.

So I will love anyway.

I will love her anyway.

The truest thing I know is that I love her.

I want this with my whole heart.

I want her with my whole heart

…and soul.

Regardless, to quote another movie:

—The love inside…you take it with you.

How lucky I am even to have found someone to feel this way about.

I hope this answers your question.

I think it was

—How are you?

Your friend, always, David

P.S. — Don’t even get me started on her personal style. She dresses like a dream. (She loves clothes even more than I do!) I’d always feel proud to stand next to her.

P.P.S. — If anything can truly describe my feelings, as cliché as it is, it’s this:

“somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond”

— e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands