To you who left, I was the one, though it brings me no pleasure knowing you're now alone.
To you who I sent away, you were the one, but I did what I had to do because you wouldn't and still haven't.
To the few of you with whom time and joy was shared and to whom I gave myself greatly and selflessly, and who still left because what I gave wasn't enough or because what we had you believed couldn't possibly be real, it's disappointing to see and hear you're still looking or, if you aren't, you're unhappy with the one you chose.
To the many of you who've credited me as the trustworthy, reliable, forthright, loving friend who other men supposedly aren't or enigmatically can't be like, yet stop short of selecting me because I don't fit the physical ideal while the multitude of good-looking losers somehow continue to touch the part of you I can't, I can only offer amazement at the time you've wasted, both yours and mine.
And about the one who's writing this, who's never said so aloud but has always known who he is, he is the one and could've been your one, but is now only the one you missed.
This night seven years ago, the lights went out in the apartment. The candles I lit shone on the faces of my beautiful little boys and illuminated my reality, then and now - in this small space is a whole universe.
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