Dear Brian,

I know that this is an exercise in futility in the sense that you will never read what I have written.  I only write this now for my own sanity and peace of mind.  It has been a year since I walked out of the loft and left the safety of your arms.  When I tried calling you day after day and you didn’t answer your phone, I grew worried.  After I talked with Deb, I grew furious.  Why would you cut me off?  Why leave me alone in this godforsaken city without your voice of reason?  In the end, I just grew disappointed and weary.

Now on the anniversary of the day I left, I have words for you.  This is not what I wanted.  If you thought pushing me off your damn Kinney Cliff by using my art was a smart way to do things, then you were badly mistaken.  It took me all of 10 minutes while sitting on my NYC flight to figure out what you had done. It took me another week to realize that you were too stubborn to back down. 

When 3 months had gone by and I still had not heard from you, I think that I just gave up on you; I gave up on us.  I went out, partied, got so damn high that I couldn’t remember my name, let alone the hurt that you had placed upon my heart.  My stupid reckless behavior went on until one day I just stopped.  I let everything I felt out and when I opened my eyes again, there was nothing but destruction in front of me.  Every sketch of your face, every painting that was done in streaks of hazel, every image that spoke of a line of your body, I had destroyed.  From that point on, I started to heal.

6 months from the day I left I got offered a small spot in a gallery.  It wasn’t much, but it was something other than washing dishes and waiting tables.  Cole Stevens, the gallery owner, had seen me painting in Central Park and offered me his card to see the finished work.  When I brought him the painting he offered to let me place 3 pieces in his next showing.  They all sold within the first hour.

I now have a pretty good following and have made somewhat of a name for myself.  I am not the “next Andy Warhol” or anything, but I get by.  I have enough to make my bills and to put some back in my “rainy day” fund.  During those last 6 months, I worked hard to make myself something for you to be proud of, and then I realized something.  Even though I still love you, even though there will always be a twinge of pain and loss associated with your name, I cannot and will not live my life for you.  If I am going to work hard, I am going to do it to be proud of myself. 

Sitting in the small coffee shop across from the gallery the other day, Cole said something to me that now makes a hell of a lot of sense.  He told me that sometimes as an artist your art is shit, and sometimes it is something to rival the masters, but an artist that does not know his own worth will never be anything other than a child playing in finger paints.

I didn’t know my own worth, Brian, and by extension I didn’t know yours.  I was a mere child playing at the game of life.  I searched my soul and went over every touch, every conversation, every breath that we shared and came to this conclusion:  You are the other half of my soul and sometimes know me so well that you can see past my blindness in certain areas.  I went on and on about sacrifices and how that is not love.  That is bullshit.  Love IS sacrifice.  To sacrifice yourself or your wellbeing for another is the ultimate definition of love.  I couldn’t see past my own self-importance to know that, or to know that sacrifice is more or less synonymous with the word compromise.  I also couldn’t see past my own image of you that I had painted, in that, I am no better than the rest of our “family” and I am sorry for it.  I know that you believe sorry is bullshit, but I have to say it.  You were changing, and I couldn’t see it for what it was.

I believe in my heart that, yes, the bomb at Babylon was the catalyst towards your change of beliefs, but now I can see that what you said that day at Britin was the truth.  You would do anything, BE anything so that I would know that you loved me.  I wish we could go back to that day so that I could tell you that you were already what I needed.  I just had to come to terms with what I myself needed to be.  If I would have just opened my eyes from the blindness that had obscured my True North with you, I would have known that everything would have worked itself out and in the end we would have been ridiculously happy.

In the end though, this year has taught me so much about who I am, and who I want to be.  I don’t know if I will ever hear from you or see you again, but my heart will always hold you in it.  It wouldn’t take very much for me to get on a plane and fly back to you.   But, if it never happens, I am content with the knowledge that for a few short years in my life, I was well loved.  Even, if that love was not easily read.  I knew it for what it was and for that I am forever grateful.

I love you Brian.  I will always love you and if time and other lovers find that my heart can be given, they will also find that my soul cannot.  It belongs to and with you.  And now when I put my brush to canvas, I am no longer painting with the finger paints of this world, I am painting with the finest oils and the richest colors.  And I do so through the love and faith that you have always placed in me.

Yours Always,

Sunshine

Two Days Later

A phone rings in the small studio apartment. 

A voice comes on the line that has not been heard in a long time and one that has been very much missed says, “Come home Sunshine. Come home.”