I found myself today staring out of the twelfth floor office windows, rehearsing these lines in a soft voice.
I have long ago given up on the idea that I might have joy in the sense of romantic love. The joy that I have comes with ... living with the faith that I have, and in the moments of each day. Surprised by each moment of joy, being wholly alive at each frame, each window, me, in this marvelous world, realising all these marvelous things.
The joy that I had wished for was in some sense narrow, perhaps arbitrary, even self-deceiving.
Look at me now. Twelve years have passed, and my feelings for you haven't changed. They will not change as long as sunshine passes down through warm, summer streets.
I now live in the steadfast belief that for you this joy has become a reality.
I wish I had gone for your wedding, so that instead of believing I could instead know that to be true. I wish the younger me had gone. But all the same I wish and believe that this is true.
And so, goodbye, goodbye forever.
