Strangely, I confess I miss the memory of you. After all these years you
would have thought you'd not be a factor in my mind; but you are and I
still
see your face glowing passionately at me after making love.We were so young
and innocent, and less confined by lapses in taste and refinement. That is
the great mystery of age, that as we get older we are anticipated to draw
between the lines and hide out emotions in a bottle. Even thought he bottle
is clear glass and we can see out as well as in, still confinement is just
as bad as freedom. I remember stroking your mind with tender touches of
open
conversation. I think that is what I miss the most. For hours we'd talk,
converse, share, open our souls at one another. Making love was really just
an after-thought, an extension of our conversations.I cannot recall where
it
began to go off; where we began to lose touch and somehow forgive one
another. That seems the tangled weave of reality that one way or another we
neglected to be present for one another.So, naturally, as time progressed
we
became less and less meaningful to one another.

Yet here I am, years after we have gone, still remembering you.