I'm here, my darling, I'm here, wrapping my arms around you, kissing you hello. It must be late where you are. Perhaps you're getting ready for bed, in which case slide over, let me lie down next to you under the covers. The bedside lamp casts the room in peaceful rosey shadows like candlelight, and we lie in each other's arms. I listen to your murmuring to me of your day, while you stroke my hair and inhale it too, and I lie listening to you, my head against your chest and as you talk I hear too the rhythm of your heart, a steady beat, the rhythm against the sound of your voice, and of mine, and you smell wonderful, and

Oh darling, all day long it's like this for me, thinking of you.

But I keep moving, I do, even if I'm half in reverie. So in this state (that I keep to myself, a secret, except for here) I go downstairs to scramble eggs and pour juice and slice the very last bit of Easter ham for breakfast; start watching the Clint Eastwood directed film, Hereafter, on Netflix, wondering how I managed to miss it when it sailed through the multiplexes here, because it's hard to watch it and unload the dishwasher at the same time...

D has very valiantly, I must say, been an agent of arranging the administerial details of that speeding ticket of mine, which still looms like some Dickensian, Damoclesian horribleness - well, it's not that bad, but there is something in me that just freezes paralytically at the thought of it. I can see why people - such as myself - might think that the slightest brush with the justice system might cause one to hew to the strait & narrow (or is it, hue to the straight & narrow?) because - my God, it's all incredibly tedious, the inexorable, bureaucratic machinery of the thing. But D has really come through - he's gone through a couple of such tickets himself so he knows the drill, just what to do, and he's managed to get someone to represent me in the little town traffic court so that I won't even have to appear, and all I had to do today was to go into town, to DMV, to purchase - for $10 - a copy of my "driving abstract" for the attorney's file, to prove that I have a clean record, to hand the form to the attorney, shake her hand and thank her for representing me - and leave.

(Oh yeah - perspective & reality check for little hothouse flower me - news is a very very big Boogie Man is now dead, & dispatched forthwith to sea (Poseidon should shudder). What a scene that must have been, his being taken out - I can hardly imagine the confrontation - can you imagine being one of the individual forces encountering him in that scene - Dr. Livingstone I presume. Bang.)

And so here I am stressing out over a silly speeding ticket. No, not silly, I shouldn't have sped.

Oh sweetheart, let me calm myself right back down by imagining my body against yours, the lengths of our beautiful bodies intertwined - at long last, together - and I listen to your heart beating again, and you talk, and I talk, and you kiss, and I kiss, and we melt and merge and meld together, a pair of mountain ranges you and I, finding each other's levels and depths and plumbings and curves and dells and risings

Let me send this off to you, with very many kisses. I should go down and attend to details of finishing dinner for tonight, beautiful Indian ginger-cilantro-yogurt-garam masala'ed chicken drumsticks (I must tear myself away to preheat oven to 425 - or is it 350?), a pot of basmati rice, rinsed & drained, that I should now set to boil), plus zucchini & carrot, already sliced...

It makes not a whole lot of sense, not that much else does, but I do love you very very much

Sweet dreams, my angel