His name should not be capitalized. Not out of lack of respect, admiration, or love. Capitalizing a noun gives the assumption that it is tied to something concrete, or understood. He is none of these things.
Heaven has either decided to curse me or the fates have an extraordinarily cruel sense of humor. I have dreamt of him, tasted him for years, reached between my legs to feel that prohibitive moisture rise forward at the sensation of him being near me and yet, he lies next to me in this white bed and my hands seem to tremble in fear of their own desire. I attempt, over and over again, to explain to him how I feel. As if this simple naive art will be enough to enthrall and overwhelm him just for some measure of time. He’s never shown any form of terror to me, yet he has so much of mine. Those cold, breatheless nights when I wake up feeling that my life has ended, I am resentful of the fact that his hand calms me down.
If I were to leave him (or more likely, him me) would I have shaped him? Carved any small piece of him in a new way? I’m afraid of walking somewhere and not leaving any discernible trace, even though I may have lost my soul among those footsteps.
It was Borges, in his interminably frustrating wisdom that said “To fall in love is to create a religion with a fallible God”. I am raising my legs as temples to him and rewriting every book I own so they will sing his praises, and just like every other God ever imagined, he is above the clamor and the rude interruptions to his existence. But I would rather dedicate my life to the blinding slavery of faith to him than to exist as a cynic without him.