Because You Told Me To Write

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Dear H,

I wished I never told you over the phone. I wished I had sat down across from you instead. I could have watched your face crumple a little bit and your brows furrow as you try to understand whatever I'm saying. I would have brought a finger to your forehead to iron the creases out, the way a wonderful friend used to do to me whenever I thought too hard. He'd say to me, "Don't think too much." I would have said to you, "Don't think too much." 

Don't think too much because it makes you look pretty grumpy, and you're going to end up FEELING grumpy, and I never want to make you feel grumpy. Or upset. Or sad. Or awful. It kills me that it's eating you up so much because I only ever want to fill you up with all the good things you deserve.

Don't think too much because when you do, you're working up a frantically expanding inner monologue, and you're going to start assuming things and having a million questions you're too afraid to ask because you're scared of sounding stupid, and they start other questions, that start other questions, and at the end of it, you're going to feel like it's TOWERING above you. Then the ache in your heart ends up tying a knot in your throat that you can't get rid of because you're completely paralysed by the size of this thing in front of you. You won't be able to move for a bit, but your head keeps yakking on and on. It's the worst.  

Don't think too much because you won't be able to sleep at night. You'll lie awake on your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, unblinking, as you try to make out shapes in the dark that you hope will tell you what to do. They'll appear, cha-cha-ing in front of you mockingly and suddenly vanish saying, "Nothing. There's nothing you can do to make this better." 

Don't think too much because there's nothing that your mind can do to make you realise that, actually, there's nothing much to think about at all.

The only way that will help is that you listen to me. Listen to me give you answers to the questions you've formed while thinking too much, and make you realise that you're unnecessarily making your pretty head hurt so much. I'll make you realise that it's not as big as society and stigma say it it is, and that your fear is the result of a dated strategy to stop gay men from fucking so much because treatment then was prehistoric and expensive compared to what we have now.

You told me to try being in your shoes for a bit. I'll pass because 1) they probably don't fit me, and 2) I've already been in them and I really didn't like how they made me feel. 

Last night, after you sent me the voice note of you saying goodnight, I thought about what I would have done if you were the one that was positive and you said all the things to me that I've said to you. 

I would have gone for you anyway. I would have kissed you more and let you take me. I have a hunch about you, and it's a really good one. You have this way of making me feel good about you - confident, even, and if you told me you had HSV, I'd probably shrug and say, "At least you're not racist!" 

H, you've been a gem about this. You've been taking it in such good stride, and with way more maturity and level-headedness than I expected from anyone who doesn't know anything about the virus. I know this hasn't been easy for you and I feel like cat piss for making you feel this bad. 

All you need to know is that it's only a thing if you MAKE it a thing. And when you forget that, I'll be here to remind you. That is, if you want me here. 

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