It is a beautiful thing. The sorrow in your eyes does not spring from self-pity. I pity you, but you do not pity yourself. You love him too much to be caught in the tangles of your own troubles. His troubles are yours.
  The storms of life pour on you as the person you love the most slips away. Not in body, but in mind. He forgets your name, forgets you. It is then that the patience you say you lack wells up in your soul and you just love back. Weariness dwells in you eyes and pain quivers on your lips but you push them aside and forget them as best you can.
  You emulate Christ in a way I pray to. It is never forced. The way you love shatters the world's idea of love. You love past beauty, past memory. Now the music is stopped. The lights have gone down and the dance hall is closed, but you have kept dancing. Even when the dance is slow and painful, when it makes your feet bleed. You would never dream of stopping.