SamadhiMuse

                                         July 13.85
                             My love,
              As I am writing these words, my whole being
         is so full of love for you it's just pouring out
         of me.
              As a matter of fact, I might just explode;
         suddenly sending zillions of powerful love charged
         atoms all over the universe.
              I am so happy to love you.  And I feel so
         privileged that you love me too.
              You, this gorgeous man with the strong, lean,
         muscled body, and those light eyes.  You, who
         holds me down when we make love, or who slowly
         sensually slides in and out of me.  Sweet torture.
         How you turn me on, how you satisfy me.
              I look at you, this tall attractive man, and I
         am amazed that you want me.  You know how I feel
         about myself, the outside me that is the shell.
              But you know, it hasn't always been that way.
         There was no magic at the beginning.  I have grown
         to love you.
              And I do love you for the same reasons that
         used to make me smile.  I had to know you, more
         and better - I had to learn about your childhood
         and your life in general to really understand and
         now, well, now I really admire you.  I understand
         and I accept your arrogance at having the guts to
         live the way you want.  Although I feel that you
         have hurt a lot of people in doing so and I have
         mixed feelings about that, but on the other hand
         how many people have what it takes to make such a
         choice about their life.  I know it hasn't been
         painless or easy for you either.
              I admire you also for what you have
         accomplished professionally.  On your own again.
         Nobody handed you anything.  And your poetry,
         sweetie, your poetry reveals the man lover of
         womankind, endlessly searching, seeking, feeling,
         loving.  How I love your poetry (some of it that
         is!).
              You are STRONG mentally, physically,
         intellectually.  It took me a long time to see it.
              Now don't get your head all swelled up; you
         still make me smile, sometimes.  Your naivete for
         certain things makes me see the small boy in you.
              You are a very special man.  And I don't use
         this word lightly.  You are very special.  And,
         sweetie, you got it, my love, my respect, my
         admiration, it's yours, my gift to you.  And it's
         free.
                                 Love,
                                   Lise

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

                                            August 2nd 85
                                Sweetie my love,
                 I thought about you all evening long, last
            night.  I just couldn't get you out of my mind.  I
            was full of you.
                 Poetic images, tangible feeling, flashbacks,
            desires, familiar scents, it was all there.
                 I wanted you; I was aching for you.
                 Strange that after being together every minute
            and having you so totally in every way these past
            few days, I should still feel this way; so strongly.
             Sweetie, even today all I can think of is you.
                 I can see your profile, in the car, while
            driving back from Mexico, and I want to run my
            fingers through your hair, I want to touch your
            skin, and have you rest your hand on the inside of
            my thigh.
                 I want to look down the cliff and see you, small
            figure, vulnerable Buddha, sitting on the sand, my
            mat neatly arranged next to you, waiting for me; and
            I want to feel the love I felt then, swell inside of
            me again.
                 I want to lay in bed with you in that same
            fetus-like position, nestled against each other, two
            beings, one man, one woman, bound by love and lust,
            trying to blend (melt) into each other; if just for
            a moment.  I want your hands on my neck; your mouth
            on my breasts.
                 I want your sweat to mix with mine; to feel
            your passion again.  How exotic it is to make love
            to you!
                 Is it possible to keep on loving you more;
            lust for you more, want you more?
                 Sweetie, I really don't care.  I'm not afraid.
            I love being swept by that feeling.
                 It is making me intensely happy; It is making me
            18 again (or is it 15?) but with the wisdom and
            knowledge I have acquired since then; how much better
            can it be?
                 What can I say?  I love loving you; I love
            lusting for you; I love looking at you, feeling you,
            listening to you, talking to you.
                 Is this love or what?
                 I feel so alive and strong and happy.
                 Oh well, that's all; just thought I'd drop you
            a note to see how you're doing.
                                 See ya, sweetie
                           Lise
                 (I just reread my letter)
           P.S. And just think, the scholars are trying to get
           away with the semicolon.  What would I do without
           it?  How would I write my letters?
                  ;;;;

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

                                         Balboa 10.30 AM
                                              8.15.85
                                         laying on the sand,
                                      in the sun.
                             My love,
                 Right this instant, right this minute, I am so
         happy.  If only I could freeze this moment in time, put
         it away and take it out when the dark moods come over
         me; when all the problems are weighing so heavily on my
         shoulders; when I forget all about my blessings; when I
         feel so desperate I just want to give up.  If only.
                 It is so beautiful and peaceful here, this
         little place on earth, this Balboa peninsula.  It must
         be one of the power spots you've talked about.  This is
         a place where everything smooths out.  This is where I
         come in the winter, holding hands with Aaron; walking
         on the pier; this is where I thank God for all the
         beauty, for my children, for my health, my
         intelligence, my independent spirit, for all the people
         who have left their mark on me, for all the people I
         love; this is where I know, somehow, somewhere there is
         a rainbow waiting for me.
                 This is where I'll come next winter to think of
         you, to ease the pain, which is eating at me already.
                 Oh, Babe; I love you so.  And it feels so good
         I want be swept away by that feeling.  No questions; no
         pain; no projection in the future, just love you, now.
         I want to look at you until my eyes can't see anymore;
         hold you until I don't know which skin is mine; love
         you until I can't feel anymore; I want to touch you
         until I know every line, every muscle so that I could
         recognize you by touch anywhere.  How sweet it is to
         kiss you; those sweet little kisses on your eyelids,
         the corners of you mouth, your forehead and temple, and
         then your mouth again, so fast you don't have time to
         kiss me back; holding you in my arms like a child; my
         child; my lover, my friend.
                 It isn't easy loving you, but somehow I am
         grateful for this love; for it is making me feel so
         full of life again.
                 Sweetie, how silly to write you this morning
         when I'll see you tonight but I just can't get enough
         of you.
                                      So there.
                                Love,
                             Me
                             --
                             --
        - letter from Lise.

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —