January 1, 1999
Sherman Oaks, California
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,