I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever, your leg my leg, your arm my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.

I never wanted a quiet,
sensible sort of love. I wanted
to be devoured.

But I missed you very badly this morning.

I think people would be happier if they admitted things more often. In a sense we are all prisoners of some memory, or fear, or disappointment—we are all defined by something we can’t change.

I want everything – love, adventure, intimacy, work.

You,
of course.
Always you.

Look, let me put it this way: with me, you’re number one and there isn’t even a number two.

This morning, with her, having coffee.