I had brought along a book, 'Paula', by Isabel Allende for my long 11 hour flight. I love her writings but because I already knew that the ending was going to be sad; after all this book is about the long coma and death of her daughter, I put off reading it, stoved away in my shelf for those long trips where I get quite restless if I am not engrossed in doing something.
I read a part that describes exactly what I can't describe we had, the kind of 'connection' that I knew was rare; that was probably never experienced by most couples or individuals, how lucky I had felt to have met him and experienced that.
And because writing it to him now would seem that I was trying too hard to get something he doesn't want, I now write it here. Perhaps these words would inspire someone to try again, love again, I really don't know.
But because I've given the book away and can no longer refer to it, all I have from the book is the words I have written in my notebook, October 2012.
...of the profound intimacy we felt from the beginning, as if our entire lives had been a preparation for that meeting, of the ease, calm and confidence with which we made love, like an old couple that has shared a thousand and one nights.
And always, afterward, passions sated and love renewed, our bodies meld in sleep, not caring where one begins or the other ends, or whose hand or foot is where, in such perfect complicity that we meet in our dreams and the next morning do not know who dreamed whom, and when one moves the other adjusts to the new angles and curves, and when one sighs the other sighs, and when one wakes, the other wakes, too.
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