You have every right to be mad.
Your anger is valid—
the one that you push down
and replace with sadness,
the one you exchange for disappointment.

The kind that connected the moments of frustration in the car,
for me to let you go,
between the crying, ever so briefly.

Please. Let it out.

You have sacrificed so much
in the brief time I’ve known you.
You carried every burden I brought to you.

At first, I loved you because I felt special—
that you carried burdens only for me,
in a way only I could ever know.

But as I got to know you—
the way you held your mother in mourning,
the way you bottle your anger and double down on your beliefs,
the purity of life, the innocence, poetry, beauty,
your nephew, the hungry dogs in the streets back home—
I knew I was not magnificent,
but had been given something greater.

I’d been let into your tiny circle of love.

With these moments,
I then loved you for your strength.

You’ve carried burdens your whole life.
You’re a survivor.
You can take care of yourself.
I don’t pity you; I admire you.

You’re someone who doesn’t churn pain
until it transforms into something unwieldy.
Instead, you put it in jars and give it new names.

I won’t try to build you a new shelf, dear.
I won’t see you and try to fix you.
I won’t try to solve your problems.

Instead, tour me around the warehouse one day.
Tell me stories about the oldest and forgotten jars collecting dust—
the unlabeled ones.

If you feel keen, I’ll hold your hand.
I’ll wipe your tears.
And I’ll let you strike me,
as many times as it takes for the feeling to leave your body.

I won’t be your punching bag.
A punching bag doesn’t feel.
I want to feel you.
It’s all I can offer—
and a laugh,
because you’ll reject me and hug me all the same.

That’s you.
And I wouldn’t change that.

When I brought myself to you, every inch,
you never judged me—not once.
You saw the real me and loved him.

You sacrificed endlessly, without ever flinching.

When I told you I had a wife,
you did the right thing and pushed me away.
You set strong boundaries.
You turned your head when I tried to kiss you.

And maybe, inadvertently,
you got me to give up chasing
and instead got me to open up.

We listened to each other
instead of sneaking off to hotels.
We sang along to music in your car.
We remembered how to have fun again—
how to laugh,
how to fill days with romance and innocence again.

And we washed away many sins,
ironically so, in sinful bliss.

And when you finally kissed me,
you sacrificed the world you believed in deeply for mine.

Only true love could do something so foolish—
but so pure.

When I told you I had a teenage son, of course, you accepted it.
You imagined ways your sense of humor could amuse him.
You pictured our boring nights together and how it could work.

The simple act of imagination speaks to the power of your love—
not only its realness,
but its sheer gravity.

You would accept the family I have
and not be jealous of firsts.
You would sacrifice pride to be welcoming.
You would give me no excuse not to fall.

Please recognize I see you.

Introducing me to your sister, your best friend—
I know it was hard.

A mix of excitement and worry,
for the perception of our behaviors,
for the ever-complicated situation,
for the stigma, for the rules.

To bring me to your family home, to defend me,
the same way you defended my James Dean look to your friends,
the same way you ask your sister if she wants another bite
of the pasta I cooked three separate times
because you wanted me to be seen.

You want us to be seen.
To be accepted.

In a genuine, beautiful way—
like taking in a sunset while no one else is paying attention.

The attenuation of bullshit,
and the focus on life.

Don’t for a second think I don’t recognize
the earth-shattering love you give—
that you took something raw,
chose me,
and planted lost feelings of guilt and shame.

And you grew them into an invincible pride for me.

I see everything you do.

And getting lost in your eyes is my sunset.

You sacrificed the heart on that dreadful morning.
You had opened a jar just hours before,
told me of a surreal moment when you were small—
your mother pushing your head down,
the noose,
the eerie silence that replaced the swinging,
and the strength you gained
to marvel at ghosts in wonder,
and not fear death.

And when death rang on the other end of the phone,
before the angels,
you sacrificed ego to be gracious.

You drove me to the hospital,
held my hand in silence,
and told me you loved me—
when you didn’t have to.

For all the pain I had caused,
you still didn’t want to abandon me.

Please recognize I see your sacrifice,
and I feel your love deep in my bones.

I repaid your strength
with the same silence as the car ride.
I didn’t honor your sacrifice.
I took too much time to react.

You have every right to be mad.

I don’t know why I feel nothing will be normal again.
That’s probably my own fear and anxiety.
That’s me running from the reality
that my actions have consequences—
that the disappointment I imparted
casts shadows over all the beautiful moments.

If you can find it in your heart to forgive,
I will be grateful.
I won’t take advantage.

Your forgiveness isn’t a lesson in bad habits,
but a light that illuminates the room,
casts the shadows away,
puts the bad times in jars where they belong,
and allows us to relish in the happy times.

In each other’s arms.
Falling asleep.

With all your sacrifice,
I can understand the magnitude of my wrongdoings,
and how clueless I am to the strength of my own punches.

If you find it too much to forgive,
too great a sacrifice,
giving too much of yourself,
I will understand.

I’ve chased you endlessly—
on foot, through Boston,
showed up where you are,
drawn to you endlessly,
using every resource I have to find you again.

But don’t sacrifice your gut for your heart.
Trust it.

But know this deeply, truly—
don’t for a second mistake this for weakness.

Don’t mistake this for not wanting you.
Don’t mistake this for a denial
or invalidation of your love.

Weakness was blocking you.
Weakness was letting your words cut me deeper than their intent.
Weakness was not seeing you home in the snow that night.

And as a man, I need to admit that,
own it,
and never do you wrong again.

Don’t twist my words:

It’s you.
It’s only you.
It will only ever be you.

I will disappoint you again—
but never in another woman’s arms.

I may disappear into a dark room,
but it will be adorned with every memory of you on its walls.

I may say the wrong thing at times,
so please forgive me immediately.

But I will never take for granted your love and sacrifice again,
and I will never rip from you
the truest words I’ve ever let myself utter.

I love you.