March 15

I'm perched on a chair by the evening warmth of a country stove with Stephanie and Dad comfortably settled in the sitting room. I'm alone, but for two enormous dogs (Newfoundlands, 140lbs a piece, at my feet, snoring deeply, and still, but for the occasional dream twitch and, once in a while, a head tilted my way through fond, doe-eyes; Basset-hound eyes) and two cats, curled asleep on the window sill, the blackness of a winter landscape, empty of all light, as a backdrop).

My stepmother wants to meet you. Consumed with care for you, transported by thoughts of you as lover, aglow when I think back on the pleasure of you, seduced to the truth that you are in so, so many ways my Soulmate, I suppose it should come as no surprise you presence is palpable, alive among us. Your gentle embrace reaches even to the depths of the rolling fields of the English countryside, my dearest L.

Joy isn't something ya can plan - the sweet bird of happiness alights only when it cares. But time with you, every moment shared with you so far, has been joyous. Times I will never forget. Times I will forever treasure. And whatever my failings, whatever my doubts, I feel certain in my courage to know that for me, you are, quite simply the rarest of souls. My Night Star.

I suppose I had hoped that England would provide me solace, certainty, distance from my cares. That it would have salved my great wound: my decision to end our romance before we tasted the salt on one another, before our bodies were arched in shared release, in surrender. But I haven't found peace here. I have been troubled. My sleep and my days have been troubled. I have wept. Our talk, the messages you left for me, have served only to fuel the loss, the pain. I ache. I hurt.

I do not fear you, L. I do not fear a relationship with you. And yet, for reasons I know not, but wish against with all my desire, I sense we are not for one another just now. I weep to think this. I weep. I wish with every fiber of my being that I felt otherwise. You are my care, my ally, my favorite thought. And, of course, I have no way of knowing whether I'm right. No way of knowing whether some strange twist in me is attached to what hurts me most. Whether a warped arrogant ego has me in its thrall. For whatever reason, I seem to have faith in what now wounds me most deeply.

I came home to Norfolk and walked into a house that was made for the two of us to learn as lovers. I stepped into this glorious, beautiful home, and hurt. Everywhere I turn I think of the possibility of a moment shared with you. Among the oak beams and paintings and Mozart is the biggest, deepest sofa I have ever seen. A whirlpool of invitation. A lush jungle of cushions a foot thick. Almost as big and as deep as the bed we might share in the room above. And my heart weeps. And I cannot count the times the thought of asking you here has crossed my mind. This is a house for lovers.

I do not know what it is that keeps me from you but I have a sense it is my future, and not the here and now. And I have a sense that to be lovers then would hurt us both so very, very deeply. I have a sense it is that which keeps us apart. I wish, wish, wish it were different, my angel by the lake.

L. when we first met I wanted a relationship with no one. But as I came to know you, I was wise enough to sense that in you I had found someone who held for me perhaps the promise of a love more precious than I have ever known. And I felt I had a duty to explore, to journey, to voyage with you, to see whether it was to be. And I did, and I was not disappointed. You drew me, and you won me completely my muse, my care, my love. But it seems it is not you who keeps me away from us. It's me. And I have broken my heart learning this. And, I hope so much your heart does not hurt the way mine is breaking now.

Every breath you take in my presence draws me. I am never more than a hair's breath away from calling you, from asking you here. And I feel vulnerable. Ya make me raw. Ya hit me right where I feel it. And so I think it is best I spend my time in England away from contact with you. And though I may never regret saying anything more than this, you should not think of us as lovers. You should move on. I am not a lover to you.

Nick