To buy you roses doesn’t say, “I’m sorry.” To whisper such words doesn’t convince your hurting self. I’ve gone the wrong way—a path with no trees, a desert, not a pebble of sand, only dirt that drops off at the horizon. Kettles of love wait for your closed arms. I understand and no longer know the magic words. Even then, I wouldn’t share them—to be the actor isn’t my place of business. I remain real, more than any time in chapters written. I’ve begged to be me in a world only I could make. Mistakes have been made—I must accept the price.
March 12, 2001: Dearest Lee…
To buy you roses doesn’t say, “I’m sorry.” To whisper such words doesn’t convince your hurting self. I’ve gone the wrong way—a path with no trees, a desert, not a pebble of sand, only dirt that drops off at the horizon. Kettles of love wait for your closed arms. I understand and no longer know the magic words. Even then, I wouldn’t share them—to be the actor isn’t my place of business. I remain real, more than any time in chapters written. I’ve begged to be me in a world only I could make. Mistakes have been made—I must accept the price.
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