It was shortly after dawn, and I was caught between sleep and wake.  He was with me.  I felt like weeping;  it had been so long.  So long baby,  I thought.   I didnt want to speak, didnt want to break the tenuous hold we had on each other.  So I opened my arms, and my heart and pulled him into me.

I could feel his breath against my neck, where his face was pressed.  He was breathing deeply, and so was I;   trying to remember the georgeous smell of each other.   The mixture of sweet sweat and love.  I lay on my back, him on his side; his huge body was curved around mine, my legs  artlessly draped over his thighs, wrapped around each other we lay, swimming together just below the surface,  memorising the sensation of our bodies pressed together in unfamiliar familiarity.

His hands began to trace my body and my skin felt like the edge of my spirit.   His fingers brushing my stomach tenderly.  I was liquid and my body responded, aching.  His feather-light touch on my skin, devoid of any wish to arouse the flaring sexuality we shared, roused not just my desire, but my longing for him. My fingers echoed his against my voilition.  My fingers rose to his face, pressed into my neck, his lips brushing the soft skin there.  I couldnt see his face, yet his eyebrows unfolded under my touch–his forehead a vast mystery.  I traced the skin I’ve known for lifetimes, a sleek supple journey. His nose, the flare delicate and strong.  The flat, low cheekbones that melted into square jawbone.  The slightly full lips,  parted, damp tendrils of breath curling around the pad of my thumb, and the soft kiss that met my caress.  

His touch traced my chin, his head pressed to my heart now.  The long fingers, elegant pianoman fingers on a mathematician, met the shell of my ear and melted into my locks, my neck his ivories.  

The years that we sustained in fleeting moments,  breathed now from us, filling the indigo space.  What transformation could mean our goodbye?  When did that golden afternoon, what we entered each others hearts become a memory?  Why isnt my son looking at me with his fathers eyes?

The bed pressed me closer to him.  No clothes or five thousand  miles was between us, only that impossible odds and everyone who said that a summer romance could never last …how did we manage four years?  How could we make and lose a son, love and leave each other, suffer difilement and impotent location,  break and mend, die and be reborn, and still love from so far away.

Pinking light brought the melting of his solidity, the feeling of his strength, his love was fading.  I raised my hand to press his head to me, to grasp what was slipping away closer, just to get closer. But as my hand almost grasped his solidity, it failed and fell against my breast.  The sunlight became more real, and I was here, in the yellow room, Knowing it was over.  My tears fell while I rose from my fragrant soul-travelling, I dressed and went to work.

Written in 1996

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