Cyber-love Affair (cont'd)
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The next day she calls and we speak, but this time I try to see her face and her hands while I listen to her voice. We tell each other how wonderful and amazing it is that we both feel this way. She mentions that maybe we could meet one day and I say maybe halfway between, somewhere in the middle of Utah. We both laugh. Later that evening I feel agitated and nervous. I am restless all night, pacing around the house, feeling awful, feeling great, and falling asleep only at dawn. I write that:
Only a fool would think he didn't love you. And I would also be a fool if I let fear stop me from telling you and if I let fear stop me from allowing myself to follow through.
I sit there in a mild state of shock as I press the "Send" button. The message disappears from the screen and flies a thousand miles away. After I send that message our letters become even more intense. We begin to tell each other everything, as if whispering in each others' ears: what we dream, what we want, what we imagine. We begin to caress each other, and tell each other how it feels to touch and be touched. We draw pictures for our eyes as our fingers continue to type out messages of poetry and love. There is an electric, erotic charge to each word, each letter of each word; each punctuation mark carries a sigh, a tingle, a gentle shock of sensation. In the mornings we awake with each other and at night we kiss goodbye until the next day. I can't sleep properly anymore. I wake up in the middle of the night, sweating. I find myself driving to an appointment going completely the wrong way. I eat all the time. By the end of the weekend, I cannot stand it any more. I know that I have to see her, touch her, hold her in my arms and kiss her face and lips and more. And more. Our letters cross. "I want to be with you," she writes. "I must meet you," I say. We both smile, but our hearts are pounding. The next day I have the tickets. I spend the next three days thinking of her and getting things ready so that I can leave. I'm crazy, I think. Who cares? I reply. What if, what if something happens? This can't be real. What if the plane crashes? Two nights before my flight I compose a poem to her:
If the plane goes down do we even exist, did we exist, except as a wish, a hope, a drop of dew, evaporating even as it forms? No. No. We should maintain more than this. If we can create love out of our own imagination, surely we can do all the rest. We can surely do it all: keep the metal wings floating in the thin air, as much a miracle as meeting you. No . . . more! The plane obeys old Newton's laws, while we--we have broken all the rules. It is as if Life itself has called us up to consummate its yearnings. Who would have guessed? Have we met before? Perhaps a thousand times, perhaps a thousand times more? To have loved you at a distance is joy beyond measure. To hold you in my arms will be rapture beyond words. And if the plane goes down my love, I will chase you across time, till we meet again in other forms and other lives, taking in this deep deep love of man for woman and woman for man. If the plane goes down then when you look up at the night stars I will be kissing your eyes. I will caress your feet as you walk barefoot on the earth. I will coil about your limbs when you are covered with clothes. I will caress your skin when you bathe and I will enter into your body when you eat. Even if the plane goes down we will be together, forever. It's like being in high school, I think, feeling giddy, silly, crazy. I never thought I would ever feel this way. Again? Did I ever feel this way before, ever?
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