We are, together, the same, you and I, on this plane

It's an amazing thing if you realize the odds of love, the odds of life -- how strange it is even to be anything. And then on top of that, there is the confounding sense of emptiness, a longing for some great thing to fill in the cracks of your heart. I don't understand love, beyond its value as an abstract. God seems more tangible in a lot of ways. All I know is that it subsists deep within me, its object nonreciprocating, waiting for a new apparition to glance off me and stir it again to the same tired emotions.

Every thought I've ever held of you must be renounced if I am to carry on. It is a very true thing that your baggage follows you wherever you go. That is what's changed, or should. I moved but did not move on. Now I will stay, but I must leave you behind. Still I don't understand my own soul, nor its terrifying fascination with yours.

The truth is that such certainty in my actions is not comforting. Forever I have traveled a broad path, cutting a swath through nearly every ideology upon which I was raised. Now, though, I tempt myself into excision, into a pain so deep and perpetual that it will be simultaneously quixotic and cynical. Then let me say that whatever immense pain existed was not because of the hardship of life, but rather the sometimes overwhelming sense of melancholic joy that accompanied loss and epiphany.

This I composed for you:

There is no sorry to be sorry for
All of this little craziness
will pass away in time
And when the afternoon has come
we'll be ever sound and soft
We will yet swallow all those dreams
and every brittle breath and cough
and when the day has come too full
every breath we have we will have to pull
as into ourselves once again we roll

If you're reading this, if you understand, this is the branch I grew for you in my heart; I turn it to you now. Burn it, and let the purity of its ashes grow something else, for I will love you now as I should've from the first -- as my friend.