Will You Be My Fifth-Century Saint?

My love, I adore you and worship you. You are everything I could ever want. You make my heart race and my mind soar. Will you do me the honor of being my fifth-century Roman martyr?

Please?

My dearest, I could not live life without you. You are my yin and my yang. You are my sun and my stars. You are my ideal early Christian saint, who was imprisoned for his beliefs, killed, and now has his flowered skull displayed in the church of Santa Maria in Rome. Will you be my religious symbol of courtly love?

Pretty please?

My heart’s desire, I love you with all my heart and soul. When I am away from you, I yearn for your presence. When I am with you, I ache to be beside you at all times. I cannot imagine being away from you for a day—an hour—a minute! I beg of you, will you please be one of the numerous legendary Christian priests whose actual life stories became cultural fodder for fourteenth-century romantic bards?

I beg of you!

My immortal beloved, be my Valentinus of Terni, a bishop martyred during the reign of Emperor Aurelian. Dress in simple garments and provide succor to persecuted Christians. Pray modestly but fervently for the deliverance of peasants and slaves denied monotheistic worship under an ancient government with presumptions of divinity. Oh, my love, recite unsettled scriptures to the worthy poor and perform evolving sacraments as part of their short, brutal lives!

No? Crap.

Well, then, forget this holiday. It’s a bunch of made up stuff anyway.

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