It's significant, I think, that I passed out within minutes of first standing close to you. Tell me, do you want to hear some hippy-dippy crap, or what? There's an old, old fable about a silver cord. Secretly, I still believe I passed out from whiplash.

Sometimes I think what I mean to say is about your blue eyes, or your strong shoulders, but I have nothing for your pieces except a sigh. I don't want you in pieces or hours or days and I can appreciate, but can't pretend to be satisfied. No mistake, the glow of your skin is the only light. When you touch me, the temperature of the whole world rises, and when we make love it's summertime. Your words are the last song that need ever be composed. But none of your parts is nearly enough.

Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia. I had simply forgotten until I saw your face. You wear the shape of a person I barely know, but there's a part of you I remember from before the clocks had started. Seeing you again was like a gasp. And I have yet to exhale. This is what was supposed to happen. This is back where we started, only time has moved on and here we are in this reality that seems suddenly farcical.

I dreamed we were laid out in a tomb, winking as we turned to dust. We are stars plotted on Fate's map. We're a story that's already written. For all that, re-enacting it is no less amazing.

I want you to know I've never ignored an ocean. But the ocean is no wonder with you standing beside it. You can see it even in pictures. And when we stood in its spray, that's all it was - a place in a photograph. A mirror for your eyes.

Every time I say I love you, what comes out is some chanted prayer, an incantation meant to be spoken to the rhythm of hips.

All I want to be is holding your hand. All I want to wear is your kisses and the trace of your touch. All I want to hear is your name. All I want to be is holding your hand.

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