I wonder if you know. I wonder if you could ever know. I wonder if you could ever know the fullness. I wonder if you could ever know the fullness of what I feel for you.
Of course, I love you. That you know, have known, since that first week we shared, experienced, unexpected, welcome, known. Memphis, the town, is a blur now to me, but I remember clearly your eyes. I remember your fragrance, fresh and airy, strong and full. I remember breathing in your sweet essence, how it stretched and grew when I touched you, undressed you.
For some reason I remember the deep green drapes, but I don’t remember the color of the walls. I don’t remember whether the hotel room’s window faced east or west. But I remember the first touch of your full and pink nipple. I remember your black lace bra, though I saw it for only and instant before I removed it. I considered for but half an instant asking, but knew I had your assent. I knew from our first embrace, from the first taste of your tongue — I knew you were mine; I knew you would surrender to my every wish and desire. As I too surrendered to yours.
I sometimes think it’s a sickness, that I must be in some sort of delusion, that life can’t possibly as good as it’s become, that I can’t possibly be as love as I feel I am with you. But maybe love is real, and maybe dreams come true, and maybe this bliss we share will continue. Or maybe it won’t, and the truth is, it doesn’t really matter to me. All that matters is this moment. All that matters is the gently arriving waves, the gulls calling in the distance, an afternoon in June, and you, walking toward me, smiling, appearing to be as happy as I.
You have proven to me that love is real, that love is sane, that love is good.