I recently wrote this as a response to someone who commented on the fact that the message of my last blog post was a bit depressing. I started to explain, then once I'd written it out realized how utterly crushed I really was. I find this surprising, as I'm kind of famous for being uncrushable.

The fact is, I'm in love with my best friend. I have been for a long time, almost since we met. I was with someone already. In fact, the way we met was Jane trying to hook up with her. Jane was with someone too, and I became best friends with both of them.

What I felt in those days has lingered, because at the time without putting too fine a point on it I had had a pretty rough run of significant others in my life who enjoyed leaving bruises n' not in the fun way. I know it's very rare in men, but it happens, and it happened to me a couple of times in a row. Point is, Jane took me in, cared for the parts of me that were broken when I got the courage to get out of a particularly long-running travesty of a relationship. After, I was barely there.

They built me up, they even gave me a place to live, and more through what I saw between them (though the relationship was ultimately doomed) I re-learned about love and the way people who love each other treat each other.

I came to admire my best friend, and as I said I came to be in love with her. Still, I had learned the skills I needed to make it a pure love, one that didn't threaten I'd do something to sabotage her relationship or even cause me to covet her overlymuch. That feeling gave me the faith to face everything that came after, to get to here. That feeling even made me a "True" friend for what felt to me like the first time in my life.

That, give or take, is the back-story. Since, she moved here and I moved back to my home state for a year and a half. When Amber (my now wife) and I moved here we got together, her newly single and me in the first *Real* relationship in my life.

Long story short we went out, ended up in a limo plied with WAAAAY too much vodka and then back at her place. A threesome ensued. While due to the sheer amount we had drank it was by no means my finest work, but I always held it as a singular moment, important. Me able to express my love in the only way I hadn't been able to, and with the two people I cared most about in the world. I had no illusions, I took it for what it was. If I seem to harbor a longing for the memory it's only because the memory itself to me is so sweet.

Even when we'd first started spending time together, it didn't take me long to realize while Jane and I created a fantastic gear, at the heart of it she comes from a much brighter place than I do. I could never dwell there, my eyes could never adjust. It was something I excepted with a sweet and excruciating sting, crossed myself and gave thanks for all that I did have in this life, and moved forward. As I'm fond of saying, I always knew Jane would never feel as much for me as I did for her.

But today I got a letter from her, it was titled "confession" and it was pretty much a denunciation and apology for her part in the act, and a very detailed account of exactly why it meant absolutely nothing to her, and in fact *could* not have at that time in her life.

I guess I'm upset, sad and frustrated. She wrote me this because I don't hide my appreciation for her. I mean, she's my best friend. But, due to the particularly artsy and editorially inclined sort of people that we are evidentally my appreciation has become so overt that my friend, my junior of SEVERAL years, felt the need to "check" me.

This is profound, what I feel. It's profound and wonderful and doesn't require a damn thing from anyone. I love who Jane is, and for all the subtleties surrounding that the simple fact of it was the foundation for alot of who I am today.

And I'm struck by the fact that no one does understand. Or worse, that they do and don't want it.

suddenly, I find myself out of words.