Inevitably I am begining to feel older, but it doesn’t seem to effect the urge to be young with you again. It’s as if I am standing beside the lighthouse humbly waiting to call you home. I have given up years ago on leaving notes around the city, and there is little virginity left in my thoughts or soul, but in my poems I sometimes can ignite and remember the virgin thoughts that brought us together.

It is a disease to believe that you can live without love, a disease that has effected many for them to die wanting of love, when they should die for love. My only regret would be that I never died for love would be on my tomb stone, for in some ways I feel I never put up the fight you desired. I am not facing a Doctor, Lawyer, or Prince that far reaches my place in society or the world. I am facing the tradtion of families different than my own, and the mind of a 29 year old woman who can not make it up, however, for some it takes 50 years, others never, accept maybe as their last thought in the form of a regret or confirmation.

I am not waiting on a riverboat or in a hovel office, but often I feel this way. The only sanity I have is the child who has every ounce of love once shared between us, and I get to share this with her every day I spend with her. Captured in her eyes, in her voice, her lovely laugh and zeal for humor and accepting the tribulations… I only wish she could overcome this fear. The fear I have seen in you, the fear you will face someday, the fear she doesn’t even know she has but we all do, and for her… I will also be there. I could not express it to you in any other way, and I don’t know at what point exactly I lost you, but going away for a year, turned into eternity. I have visited the shores of Cartegena, I have seen the river from which love floats, I have never taken my eyes off the ocean or the mountains or my mind from you.

Whether it was telegram, fax, mail, email, or phone, I have sent my words to you… like no other could for no person I know could love the way I do and have for 12 years of being with you. I wish we could find a way to get away from them all, mark the door with an “X” so that they would believe we have the plague and would never come in, some way to make it all go away, for their life is the illusion not ours. Its the illusion that someone else is right, that we were too young, or incapable of resolving our issues, or that we are now to different when we have never been more the same. I have no jail to break out of to run to you and stop you from marrying another, I have the resolve to wait until I am 80 years old if I can live that long, but I am happy in the fact that I know you read this letter, that I have our daughter to love, and that everything I ever loved in you exists pure as it was the day I met you… 

Your Canadian Boy. Maybe you can tell your boyfriends I am coming to town someday and that you don’t want to see them anymore, maybe someday I will have the pleasure of being the good one for you again, or maybe someday, this will happen for someone else… who can write at least of that illusion that still afflicts me, or the reality that is now far less real than the illusion we live. The red lines on the flag is the blood I have bled, the yellow is the nature of those between us and greatness, and ourselves for not facing it.

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