February 14, 2010
Our adultery falls like water from heights infinite. Yet I cringe at the secrets we share as my love lies sleeping. We lay among so many memories, shared, yet independent – the staff of life, wine brought unexpectedly by friends, the quality of both.
We snuggle deeper and the truth of shared anxiety rises and falls like swells on oceans perturbed by weather’s breath. Dear Henry whispers “Big Sur awaits our reunion and the union of Earth and Spirit still.” I quiver at the thought and then…relent.
He understands my dilemma, because he shared it once, so that his words resonate like the bells of Saint Sebastian’s calling home the faithful. He talks of expectations, of mores, literacy, and scoffs at the convention that so many chase like dogs sniffing after rotting hunks of flesh. We are surrounded by blank walls, no window for distraction, yet we turn to our surroundings for inspiration. We share good wine with artisan cheese and bread, good bread. And France, oh France! Would that we could be there together, just once.
But we are separated by time, not distance. Thirty odd years. And yet, it feels like we inhabit the same space. He reads my mind. Tells me what I need to hear each time I turn to him. He is an attentive lover by all accounts and this is no exception. He embraces me with his words, creating tension and a longing so profound that no cavern can compare. I am left breathless and exhausted, wondering how it is that I allow him to penetrate so deep. His heart, like an arrow, piercing mine with his consciousness beyond expectation. Every time.
“Once more,” I think.
And we return again to compart our common compulsion, me and my love, my Henry Valentine.