confessionals, in the ass

The lord speaks in wonders and so it is as I leave Rochester Chicago bound only to find a flight delayed and grounded in Philadelphia as a storm built on the eastern seaboard. Fleeing to safety I find the other Pete and Kate and hunker down post liquor store and watch as the clouds form to ice to downpour to blizzard to a foot then an additional foot of snow. We talk and the next action becomes clear, then more clear, piling up like inches. We talk and I sit to write.

I wake up sometimes thinking I'll find my wife beside me. In the haze I reach over and remember, vaguely now, the feel of her, her presence. I know now for certain that these thoughts will linger with a person forever, with me until I die. There will never be a time that the thought and dreams of pure love and original connection and vows and belief will disappear. They will always be there and be there in want and desire, at least the story I had planned it to be in fantasy. Love conquers all and delight is the reward. At the same time I also know that this story could be any story. I also know that chemically Buttercup was my girl. I doubt there was or will be any two people with the capacity to melt into one another than she and I had. If you ask her it may be a different story but for me it was true. Softness is not wetness, it is the bond two people have when their chemistry matches like bone marrow. Buttercup was the moon and she'd keep me up till 3AM or all night with it. I knew it and never came inside of her. That was her deal, you can't cum inside me until we are married and then you get my ass too. You can have me in the ass and cum inside me if we stay together in the eyes of God. Some God but I respect her for it and I never did either. And this will haunt me. But it should not be underestimated the force of what I first set out to tell - that with a man is love for his bride (if it is true), that when definite and failed will go on forever. It will go on with more force of forever than as such to any living force. Of course, when I am dead it will be too but so will everything. So will the tectonic shift and Seychelles and all the nations awaiting changing tides and high waters and fire and meteors or any such boy dream Romantic nonsense. Nevertheless.

So I speak in the quiet, calm and more than coincidental realization that the face plant of landing inanely in Philadelphia, in the heat and cold of transition, in the need for a break and time to make a better move and forceful plan to march on I find a tiny reason to post this and remember that in the quest for an honest life one makes horrible mistakes. That living is not hiding and wanting is not needing and helping is often the equivalent of shifting rather than changing any outcome. Still it is entirely the debt of stupid belief in something honest. So I must, at the very least, tell the truth on my way through. Honest report for whatever it's worth. Dear God, how stupid.