Well, for something so inevitable, that was unexpected.
Yeah, I knew it was coming. Deep down inside I knew you weren't going to change, and I was just trying to buy some time, because I wanted to be with you as long as I could. Forever, if I could.
But every time I reached out to you, you smacked my hand away. There's only so much of that a guy can take before his self-esteem starts taking a wallop. I just won't go to that place where you are right now.
If there was any way I could have dragged you along with me, to the place where I am, you know I would have.
Why, why, why did you smack my hand away? My greatest pleasure in life was in your touch - was in touching you. And I don't mean in the way you seemed most comfortable - alone, in the dark, just a pair of bodies secretly working off some biological imperative.
Fuck it, you know exactly what I mean.
You know I'd still be there if I could, right? I'd go to yet another one of my club things without you (again) and make excuses for you like usual. "Well, David's not here because, the fact is, well you see, he loves me and I love him and all that good stuff, but, unfortunately, sorry to say, David's ashamed of me. Because I'm a fag. And he's ashamed of fags. Oh yes, he's a fag, too. He hates himself. Ergo, he hates me."
Okay, that's not fair. I know that coming out is different for everyone, and I can't expect you to follow my same exact path, or even take my advice and try to learn from my experience.
You say that it's different for you. Frankly I don't see it. Like, how can being gay or straight have anything to do with running a funeral home? And as far as your family's acceptance is concerned, it's pretty clear to me your brother and sister could care less. (By the way, Claire knows.) If anything, they'd probably find you MORE accessible, more PERSONABLE, knowing once and for all that you're gay.
Okay, sure, maybe a certain amount of delicate maneuvering would be necessary in your Mom's case, but come on!
You're 31 years old. I'll lay you 2 to 1 odds she figured it out a long time ago, and she's just waiting for you to come clean. And as far as wanting to be a deacon in a church that will never, ever accept you for who you are - I'm sorry. That amount of self-loathing is just beyond my understanding.
I won't call you, and that's the God's honest truth. I'll worry about you - wonder how you're going to process all of this.
Who am I kidding? I know you're going to bury this whole incident so deep inside you won't even remember the look on my face when you told me you didn't want me to go to church with you.
It won't even occur to you how that must have made me feel inside. Like I was - what? Something cold and left-over and unimportant. Just another dead body.
Like I said, I ain't calling, David. Not this time.
I'm not going to be the one to try and make it right. Because there's only so many times I can throw open the door and say, come outside into the light of day, baby. Come outside and be with me. And if you want to stomp all over my heart on your way BACK through the door, well that's just fucking fine, too.
I'm sorry. I can't.
I love you, David.
I wish you nothing but a thousand million tender mercies on your journey, where-ever it may lead.
I wish things could have worked out so that we would be on the path together but Tough shit, right?