"You just sit there wishing you could still make love."
"High and Dry"

January 1, 1999
Sherman Oaks, California

      Dear ------,

      Tucked in and sleeping like a little girl in my bed, walking around the Getty Museum hand-in-hand, you curled up at my side with your head on my chest, your head thrown back and your torso arched in passion... these are the images that stay with me of you. That song we heard in the car inexplicably runs through my head over and over after you left yesterday for the Atlantic seaboard, and I remembered enough of the words to be able to track down its name and author ("High and Dry", Radiohead) in next to no time on the Internet. Now that lyrically haunting song is linked to you in my imagination.

      It is strange to be with someone constantly and then suddenly to have them not there. After so much time together, I feel your absence sharply -- not only in my thoughts, but in my muscle memory. I close my eyes and still feel my hands lightly tracing the outlines of your neck and shoulders; I remember perfectly the various curves and contours unique to your body. Lie down, close your eyes, and imagine the delicate touch of my fingers along your skin; it should be in your muscle memory, too. Think about the feeling when my lips brushed your neck and then watch the goosebumps rise on your skin, as I watched happen many times, too. Do this now and again, and I should not be far away -- even if an entire continent separates us.

      I will not forget the many hours listening to you tell me about your family, friends, experiences, and thoughts -- all a gift, I know. Thank you for sharing that, as well as for the more intimate moments when we lay skin-on-skin in the semi-darkness -- you and I together as one. I write this after getting home this New Year's Day and hearing your message on my answering machine, the welcome sound of your voice.

      With Much Love,