Memories in bits and pieces

Seeing Henry and hearing his rough voice takes me back to those long afternoons when Henry Miller's words intoxicated us both, his voice dark, masculine and deep, thick velvet that wrapped us both in scent and sound. His long slender fingers were winter chilled as he touched my face, marking a cool trail down my fevered skin, my heat warming his touch, radiating between us, growing hotter as we touched and talked and kissed.

Miller's rough and untutored words sounded sophisticated and polished on his lips, his innate sense of style and republican decorum infusing the crude unvarnished passages with style, his style. He was the modern incarnation of Miller, full of Miller's passion for life carefully reined and tutored, anxious to be given his head. Afternoons and scattered weekends full of art and poetry, passion and intellect, tangled and sweaty and near bursting. Miller takes me back, sends me deeply into our own Tropic of Cancer. I miss those afternoons and Miller and him. Watching Anais and June and Henry and dear naive, generous Hugo always in the background or on the fringes, near the fire and never scorched, merely warmed.