I've been with one man in my life, and he is a wonderful, humane, literate, clever human being.
I'm also mentally ill. I do not see clearly at times. I accept full responsibilty for everything I have done, but I also protest that my judgment, at times, has been clouded through no choice of mine.
I have never actually been unfaithful. As strong as my feelings have been, as much as I have been unfaithful in dreams and imagination, I tell myself that real infidelity -- having an affair in real life, in real coffee shops and real hotel rooms, with a real human -- would be the first step on the slippery slope to suicide. I can carry regrets, but I cannot carry guilt. It would murder me. I am sure of this.
At the same time, it breaks my heart that the second man I loved, who never knew I felt anything for him, is someone I will in all likelihood never see again. I've moved halfway across the country, and I have no occasion to write to him or e-mail him. I miss him terribly.
I would have loved to be his friend. He seems to be a proud and, in a way, stern. I can't imagine him doing something that he truly felt to be wrong. I have reason to believe that he is happily married, and I do not think he would stoop to an affair. Friendship would have been possible, because I am sure that I interested him -- he liked my writing and showed real interest in what I said. I felt such warmth from him, but not in a sexual way. It was the warmth between two citizens of the same country who unexpectedly met in a foreign land.
I want to lay a book on his desk, of poetry, about how one human can love another human so much, even though they may be unknown. I will say, "I wrote this for you," and quietly vanish again.