I write letters that I never send. To say the things I could have said and didn’t. And to remind myself of the rawness of human emotion when it’s unfiltered and without risk. Some are true, and some are merely exercises under the influence of a momentary muse.

My dearest James,

I wrote you a letter. And then I tore it up. It was too much or too little or too something.

We talked so much. Too much. At that natural point when nonverbal communication should have taken over, we had limitations and commitments to honor. So we wrapped our arms around each other, and then we talked some more. It seems impossible that there could be anything left to say. Yet I find myself realizing I missed some things.

I should have told you that you are a really good man. That your imperfections make you real. That you are strong and smart, capable and talented, resilient and genuine. Yes, you are still learning and growing and exploring unfamiliar territory, but you are doing it with authentic openness and thoughtful consideration. It is these things that will make you a brilliant partner when you find the woman who steals your breath away.

You know I didn’t fall in love with you. I couldn’t. But I loved spending time with you. I loved the feel of your arms holding me. Your head resting against my chest as we breathed each other in and accepted the comfort and connection found in each other. I loved the unexpectedness of our brief time together and the revelations it inspired.

It makes me sad to think that you will end up feeling guilty for our stolen week. That time and distance will make what was pure and real seem ugly and sordid. I know I can’t influence how your mind unravels the experience, but I hope you will find a way to remember me fondly and discard any regret.

I am, and will always be, grateful for the honesty between us and the insights gained, the laughter shared and the songs sung, the tears shed and the truth revealed. Thank you.

Yours,
the coxswain