(Im)probability

I want to write to you tonight, Beauty, but I hardly know where to start. Part of me wants to write to you seriously, creatively and intellectually - about conversations with friends, the articles I've read, films I've seen, the ideas that have insinuated themselves into my imagination. But, every time I begin, I feel dishonest.

Because I miss you. That's all I want to tell you tonight. But I fear this may be the last thing you actually wish to hear.

Why fear? Because it's been a week since we've spoken, and our last conversation seemed oddly abrupt. Yes, I know the circumstances were awkward - but still, I fear, something has changed.

It has been hard with you gone. But at least, for the first few days, I could talk to you by phone, send you a parcel, track its progress, and imagine that, as it got closer, so did I. And with each phone call you laughed so easily - responded so immediately - that I couldn't help but feel close .

But during the last call, I felt the distance growing, your discomfiture manifest. Then a week of silence. Perhaps you've been swept up in a swirl of romance. Or awash in guilt. Or been busy. Or, perhaps, distance has given you an opportunity to reflect and decide. Still, I know that, had you really wanted to, you could have stolen a moment, made a quick call, left me the briefest of messages, or fired off a email. A mere word in the subject field would have been enough.

But you haven't. And so, by not sending me a message, I suppose you are sending me a message. Am I wrong about this?

I wouldn't blame you. The truth is, I've come to count on you far, far too much - on your affection, your ideas, your companionship, your presence, your intimacy, and your sheer provocation. You've gone from being an amusing pastime on the periphery of my imagination, to being something spirited and essential at the centre of my heart.

I'm almost sure you don't want that responsibility - not from me and, maybe, not from anybody. In the past, I've seen how the full-throated devotion of a heartsick boy has made you claustrophobic, scornful and irritable. I'd hate to be part of that legion. Maybe it's too late to avoid that fate.

Or, perhaps there's another reason for your reticence. The giddy idiot within my heart wants to believe that it's something else: That I am - even in your silence - always on your mind; That you dearly wish I were with you; That you have so much to tell me that you can't even bring yourself to begin; That you love me, despite our circumstances and (almost) despite yourself.

I wish I knew. But, to be honest, the 'giddy idiot' version seems the most unlikely. Also the most romantic, don't you think?

I've always felt that love, if it's real, needs to be unlikely. Needs to requires sacrifice and struggle. And that it comes, most often, awkwardly and unbidden. After all, if were too easy, if it were to happen merely as a matter of course, how would we recognize it? How would we feel its power? And how would we know it was love?

This is distinct from your notion of effortlessness...no. That's wrong...not 'distinct from', but 'bound up with'. Relationships that are marked by both effortlessness and improbability. Those are the ones I believe in. Or want to.

That's what I'm thinking about tonight, Beauty: The probability of improbability. Because I miss you terribly, and I hope you miss me too.