"You just sit there wishing you could still make love."
Radiohead
"High and Dry"
January 1, 1999
Sherman Oaks, CaliforniaDear ------,
Walking hand-in-hand through the Getty Museum, tucked in and sleeping soundly like a little girl in my bed, your head thrown back and your torso arched in passion, you curled up at my side with your head on my chest... 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 for the Atlantic seaboard yesterday, and I remembered enough of the words today 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 permanently in my imagination.
It is strange to be with someone constantly and then suddenly to have them not there at all. After so much time together, I feel your absence sharply -- not only in my thoughts, but in my body's memory. I close my eyes and still feel my hands lightly tracing the outlines of your shoulders and hips; I remember perfectly the geography of your body, the soft rises and falls, the warmth -- I see it all clearly in my mind, know the texture, the feel. Lie down, close your eyes, and imagine the delicate touch of my fingers along your skin; the feeling 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 -- remember how I would laugh when that happened. 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. Remembrances of you litter my apartment here and there, and so I am loathe to clean -- and you linger still.
Love,
Richard
