a Picture

I cannot work out how to describe this moment in words. I know it will forever be important to remember (there was a moment similar to this one last week, and I’ve kicked myself since for not writing it down), and yet no format or phrasing springs to mind. Except for what I’ve just written, which must say something about my brain in some way. (but it’s late and, unusually, I have no will to psycho-analyse myself. ) we have just had sex, but it’s not what you’re thinking ( heaven forbid we should treat anything lightly) it’s a’mazing, lov ing, passion-fuelled sex; the sort people who aren’t too em barrassed (not myself, obviously) call ‘making-love’, or ‘love-making’ or some such word that both pleases and grates on the soul. We don’t ‘make love’ (we have that already), we show it, move in it, feel it, sculpt it, which sounds ridiculous but hey, this is the 21st century and we do as we do as we do. And I hold him as he comes (I always do this; it makes me Feel closer to him, although no doubt he’s never notic ed that I do it) and I start to cry. Which is stupid but I’ve always done that if a large wave of emotion of any sort hits me (this time, love, knowing how much I’m gonna miss him next year when he’s off round the world and it’s just me and the cat watching neighbours) and he kisses my eyelids [no you can’t have him he’s mine] and tells me ‘no cryie’ and I lie in his arms as we drift off to sleep. (well he does, but I obviously don’t; I get out of warm bed and crossto cold chair and place cold keyboard on knees and type this picture. [dear readers, I have to tell you, I’m not sure where I’m heading] x Written January 3rd, 2001 © on Jan 15 2002 09:16 AM PST   0 • 8