2001...

He wants a fairy tale, for pearls to fall from my lips and awaken in him the things he has forgotten. He wants more than my words, more than my kisses, more than the possession of my body. He wants the parts of me I save for myself – that I cannot give away. The craggy peaks and unfathomable depths of imagination that form the topography of my inner world, which is boundless and untamed and belongs to no one. To give that mystery to anyone would be to destroy the very essence from which all other things about me radiate, like the endless rings that emanate from a single stone dropped into still waters. But still lay what I can at his feet. What I give to him is delicate. Cuticle...the tender translucent nebula, which would cause me to bleed if the delicate edges frayed. I have tried. I have given to the point of feeling empty, but he is still not full. There is not enough love in me. I am too small. He needs a greater love – the love of God – but he is angry, angry with more than me. He shakes my shoulders, demanding more. And I, like a foolish child, do not leave but try to give more. It helps no one.