To My Valentine

It is twenty years, now, my Love. Twenty years of joy and heartache, of laughter and tears, of learning what love really means and of how it has shaped our lives.

Tonight you are far away, an oddity for us two whom rarely spend even hours apart. It is difficult to not have you here in the house, smoking your cigarettes and typing away at your computer for hours. (Though the air is fresher!) Your sandy hair, tousled and unkempt, is not within my reach this evening, soft as cornsilk, to run my fingers through, as I stroke your brow. Your arms, in which I lie so many evenings, too, are lost me this night. And other body fragments, too, which have made intimate so many of our nights are lost to me this evening.

But, still you are near. The bed clothes store your scent, and so do your shirts, Your various projects lay about unfinished, partly constructed or unconstructed. Your photos are within my view. Yes, even miles away you're still here with me - each object in this house holds your memory as easily as a vase holds flowers; and the perfume of those sweet, sweet thoughts I've stored deep inside me waft ever gently to my mind.

And, soon, My Love, you will return to me, you will come home and I will have you in my arms again. But all that is intangible will still be here, too, receded, but ready, always to come forth to sooth and calm, to remember soft kisses and music which is ours...