Fucking secrets! Husbands, and wives. That song I can never really remember: “Your secret’s safe with me…” It’s ten o’clock. This really hurts, to feel this way. Over something so small, innocent, casual. Here’s the little boy whimpering. “But it was mine, a sacred whisper I gave to nobody….nobody!…except you.” And you laughed when I told you. Pammy Jammy. Huh!! This thing…that reminds me, that almost becomes us for me when I need you the most. My private dancer, a pleasure ragdoll. You laughed. At my sharing that sacred whisper. You understood. Because it was really about us, and the ache that becomes the distance when we’re apart. My loneliness. My lonely, achingly distant sex drive that has only one gear, one speed, no brakes heading for the jumping cliff when we’re together, but never lets me forget it when we’re not. So where do I feel from here? You spilled the beans on me, O motormouth Momma. And now I’m hurt, and mortified. Tawdry, silly, a dirty dog. Betrayed perhaps; just a little bit. Okay, and angry…no, right this second? Really pissed. But not with you. Strangely, mostly with myself. I also hate myself for saying, feeling, overreacting this way. But it was my secret, a carnal confidence, regifted and hustled out into the neon brightness, morphed to a casual story meant to amuse, a throwaway punchline that must have brought sweet, open-mouthed laughter-and Oh I wish I’d been there. To share in the secondhand secret. But I wasn’t. And now I’m feeling all these things that won’t go away, not tonight anyway, which means that sleep will be the last guest to arrive at this party. And that sucks, because if you were here, lying beside me, skin to skin, and those soft words would find their way into the cracks of this broken dam of tears, then none of this would be happening. Or at least if it did, we could roll up our sleeves, break out the heartbreak duct tape, tap the pixie wand, and make it as good as new.

Secrets. Here’s another one. None of this really means anything more than a night’s lost sleep, the battle between thinning skin and hyper-driven sensitivity buttons. So don’t you worry. I will never not be the man who loves you enough to want to always know more, dive deeper, feel stronger and longer and better. Even if it’s quirky and occasionally befuddled and over-reactive to subtle tectonic shifts, as witnessed the above epistle of strange doubts and stranger fears. Trust I do, I always will. For better or for worse. I feel like saying: “Disregard the preceding diatribe. Reinsert an elegant, soundless haiku of faith and trust. Shred the summons, toss the letter bomb a safe distance past our love.” Because, the truth be told, my darling, daring one, the simple act of writing these words down becomes the miracle of forgiveness. The power of the pen, or blinking cursor, goes a long way towards understanding what the heart takes forever to decode.

So…there you have it. No more words. And now I’m (finally) tired. Ready for sleep. Recharge.  Dream. For you to call in the morning. The storm has safely passed. It’s one more day closer to being there. I’m okay. K? I still love you…forever. Even when…you know-it gets weird.