...I am reduced to wandering sadly through the shadows of the happiest moments of my life:

July 20, 2003:

You are beautiful beneath me in the morning. Beautiful deep in my ear and arms at night. Beautiful from first committed kiss (never tenuous, we). Beautiful with "Tell me what you like...." Beautiful on the phone, silences full of shared delight. Beautiful with unnatural (so you say) turnout, white against white, thighs upon thighs, legs and arms and feet and OH-SO-BEAUTIFUL neck in your kitchen, in your bed, in your office, in my life.

I thought all weekend of your skin, my god, so flawless, even in the slow, courteous light of our first dawn together.

Thought of you, breath so sweet, voice so soft, hands so smooth against me. God, I thought of you and thought of you and thought of you.

I thought of you at the ceremony, old as Buddha, fresh as "Yes, I will, yes." Thought of you dancing with the choreographer of Moulin Rouge, John, stopping all the others dead in their tracks with envy and delight. Your hair, your body, your rhythm. Thought of you, dancing with me, slow in the night, among the trees that inhaled the smoke from Henry Miller's cigarette not so very long ago.

And later, in my bed in the hills, alone with only vivid memories of us to keep me company, I thought of you, of us, in many beds, in many lands, on many nights, in many dawns.

I am told *thinking* makes it so.

I miss you like the mountains miss the sea.



All of this remains to this day the truth.