My Heart Is Become an Ocean

I am come nigh unto an utter desolation of the heart, and this desolation I look upon is largely of my own making...

Was ever woman in this humour woo'd?
Was ever woman in this humour won?
—Shakespeare, King Richard III

Being the late bloomer that I am, I have discovered true love at the ripe age of 31 in the person of Tammy; only I am going to lose her, likely to a man in Colorado. I curse thee, oh man, and would slay thee in my pain and rage, yet my sword is broken and my curses can only fly back on myself, for it is I who has crushed this love's delicate blossom. It is irrational, in that it is self-destructive, but my heart is swollen to overflowing with sorrow and hatred for myself, that I have undone the love she once held for me. Will she not heed my pleas to let her heart mend and let me prove to her that I may yet be worthy of her love? I fear all I can do is helplessly watch her drift far away from me, beyond the horizons of my present desolation, eventually and inevitably into the arms of another man. That I am alive is only because I fear death slightly more than I hate my self and my life, for many times have cold waters to the west whispered to me of their murky solace. So is my desolation become an ocean, in which I would drown, but not die, though betimes I were that I would.