He was not a rich man but he gave of himself fully…and to her completely. He had little spare money but if he saw something he thought she would like, he would buy it for her without thought, saying to himself, “I will figure out how to pay it off later.” He didn’t want her to go without. And somehow he always managed it.
When he didn’t have green paper to barter for tributes and trinkets and treats, he made his own, for he had a pressing need to give to her and money could not obstruct his imagination. From discarded magazines and clippings, old pictures and hand drawings, he would create cards, altars of his devotion for her. And when the supply of magazines fell short, or his pen ran dry, he used his words to carry his love.
Many times he went hungry in sacrifice to his giving. He fasted not out of spirituality but out of a devotion to his goddess. But he never felt hungry; he just had to think about her and he felt nourished.
When he finally passed from this earth, she wanted to lower him into the ground with his nicest clothes. Going to his closet she found it empty. He had traded all his clothes to fund his love and was left with only the clothes on his back.
And what was the cause of his death? He had given all of his heart to his beloved and left not even a small piece of it for himself and without a heart the body cannot survive. But he did so without regret. If he had any, it was that he couldn’t give her more.