What can a person say beyond I love you? How can I ask that question without sounding idiotic, desperate and foolish? How can I let everyone know my love is founded in logic? But is it? Is it my love?

I would like to start over, not our relationship, but rather this thought. My feelings for you brimmed over, they still do. I thought finally telling you “I love you” would satiate this desire to emote. However, this hunger has only grown. The feelings I have surpass my truncated knowledge of the word love. In my modest vocabulary no word exists for how I feel.

There is a void as I depart. True, the void is physical: first a few feet, then a few yards. Eventually this turns into several hundred miles and one time zone. (Our relationship spans time!?!?! This is the kind of joke I make to make you smile and fire off a little comment about leaving the comedy to my brother). Overlook this physical void. My guts are black; my guts are dark curled inside the nest of my torso. My guts house another void. My guts are a jigsaw puzzle. When I leave you I leave a piece from my jigsaw guts with you. This piece is in the exact shape of you. Every time we say goodbye the piece has grown in size, leaving a bigger hole in my puzzle.

When we say hello again your smile pressed against my smile gets that “you” shaped jigsaw piece back in place. I feel at peace in your place. I am whole with your piece.

I want to ask you to marry me. I know 4 months of dating is too soon. But I know this is what I want. I think it is what you want. There are so many little details to work out – like not living in the same city, for instance.

You have taught me the agony of joy, the depression of happiness.
The only thing standing between you and me is my inability to deal with my past and projection of my own shame onto you. Not everyone is an egomaniacal sex addict craving attention, throwing suitors aside like sticky hard Kleenex. I thought about my sexual past. I vomited.

After cleaning up I tried to make a list, like so many times before, of the number of men I have been intimate with. I had to create a formula based on number of months I have been sexually active times number of average lovers per month. The number I came up with is 350 … ish. This number includes only those people that I have been naked with and/or done more than kiss. On average, this would be a man with whom I stuck my tongue down their throat, then they sucked me off. Crude. So is my past.

If I include make out partners I am probably close to 500. Isn’t this appealing? Why do I want you to know this?

Don’t you want to spend the rest of your life with a man like me?

They say the past doesn’t matter, but without the past I wouldn’t be me.

But I can’t love myself with the past me just behind. How can I get him out of sight?

I love you. You love me. I am impatient. I will see you soon. I will be alright. This piece of “you” is still getting bigger, this hole is getting bigger. I am afraid I’ll fall in.