One of the most frustrating things about this love is that I can’t adequately express it.
You know how it feels when there’s a word on the tip of your tongue? That’s a taste of how I feel when I talk to him: there are words somewhere–I can sense them, but I just can’t get at them. It’s like reaching for the moon. As close as it looks, I can’t grasp it.
I want to tell him how I love him and how wonderful he is. But I’m forced, I guess by the confines of my skin, to speak to him with common, ordinary words. Words other people have already used, such as “love” and “wonderful.” They’re silly, shallow, imbecilic. Everyone’s already slobbered all over those words a hundred million billion times. It’s like searching for a virgin in a sea of whores.
If I could, I’d leave the ordinary words for ordinary humans and their ordinary expectations. They’re satisfied with used, worn-out words; let them eat leftovers. For him, I am desperate for words that are both distinctly my own, and distinctly his. For him I’d offer extraordinary Words (all fancy and British-looking, with lots of swirls and embellishments), drawn fresh from the well of my personal, unlimited me-to-him vocabulary. These Words would perfectly voice only what I feel, and only for him. And after I’d used them, I’d throw them away and go to my well for new Words. I wouldn’t dare, wouldn’t even consider offering him used words!
Oh no, my Father God. I love you too much to offer you sloppy seconds.
I’m utterly convinced there are fresh Words for him, from me, that no one has ever spoken and no one but me will ever speak. There is no other explanation for this absolute knowing that what I want to say is just beyond my grasp, like a word on the tip of my tongue.