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I saw you in my dream last night. It was a night of endless images but all I could remember was you, standing there, smiling. Then you called me this afternoon much to my surprise. You sensed gaiety in my voice. I didn't want to admit I was actually glad to hear from you.

Watching men's swimming in Olympics lately had me thinking of you. You never did lose that athletic swimmer's body from your days of youth. The morning after the first night we spent together, I woke up and saw you looking out the window, a white towel wrapped around your waist, hair still wet from shower. You were tall, lean, shoulders broad, hips proportionally narrow. For the first time I marveled at a man's body, which until then had been a source of certain repulsion and contempt. I found you as beautiful as you found me.

You have come and gone all in the course of this short evening. All I'm taking from tonight is how you wrapped your hand over my left hand and wrist and asked if it was still hurting a lot. Yes, I said, it's the most mundane activities that give it pain. You wound your fingers tighter around my hand and dozed off.

Yet, my friend, I love you not for I love another, even though this love is made of equal parts resentment, sorrow and madness. I seek from you the comfort and familiarity of our bygone childhood years when life was simple and innocent. Neither do you love me. We each hold back so much from each other, wanting, but not giving, knowing not to utter the same words we whisper in bed when we're clothed.

Selfish is what we are. Measured is the time ahead of us. Hurt we both shall be at the end of this time.