January 2, 2002
Nineteen and Ninety
This is only the briefest period of time in my entire life. To suffer for a year, perhaps two, likely six, is not so long when I think that I am nineteen years old, that due to the advancement of medicine in years to come I will live to be at least ninety. I can feel the therapy of his company if even for only eight days.
Is he leaving tomorrow? He is.
But I have said before and I will say again that it is as though he never left.
And I will say for the first time that it is not so bad. I say it now, perhaps, because I will see his face in but a few hours, and feel his touch, and touch in return, and eat economy dinners and threaten to bite ears and noses, and shiver in the cold and smell the leather of his coat, and trade the oils of our palms, and feel as if everything is alright. But everything is. I will doubt and I will cry and my heart will struggle in vain to rip itself out of my chest and I will scream and bitch and moan and pen dark thoughts to the night and look at the stars alone and dream and pray to a God who I don't expect to listen.
Everything in my life has happened to shape me. It is not supposed to be easy. The difficulty makes it all the more sweet.
And though I am nineteen, and though it seems a long time and impossible, I will see it through, and trust, if I can have him beside me when I am ninety.
astera at 1:43 p.m.