It was April 15, 2000. I had a few books stacked beside the bed—reading material that reflected the many states of mind I moved through in a week: psychodynamic theory, ego state therapy, even a book written by a woman with dissociative identities using collages and magazine cutouts to represent the parts of herself.
I had been reflecting on all of it—how we carry different selves inside us, how trauma and healing play out over time—when Lynn appeared at the doorway.
She had that mischievous smile I loved.
“I want sex,” she said, straightforward as ever.
My heart lifted. “Me too.”
We undressed quickly, comfortably. Familiar, yet new each time. The kind of comfort and chemistry that only deep love can produce. When she moved toward the bed, her gaze locked with mine, I felt the same awe I always did. Like seeing her again for the first time.
She climbed on top of me, our lips finding each other fast, hungry. Her body pressed close, arms wrapped tightly around me, the space between us seeming to vanish.
“I feel like I can’t get close enough,” she breathed, her mouth pressing into mine like she was trying to merge with me—hungry, urgent, needing more than just touch.
“I know,” I said, pulling her even closer.
She shifted, her breath catching as our bodies moved together. Then, gently but firmly, she paused.
“You’re too close, sweetie,” she said with a soft sigh, her meaning unspoken but understood.
We had talked about it before—her health, the impossibility of pregnancy due to her condition. It was the one boundary we couldn’t cross, no matter how much we wanted to become one in every way.
But still, we held each other. Moved together. Loved each other as fully as two people can.
The intensity built. She clung to me, her body not arching but wrapping itself around mine—like she was trying to become part of me. Our mouths met again and again, hungry, urgent, like we could dissolve into each other if we just held tight enough.
And then—suddenly—I let go.
She felt it. Paused. Still. A quiet smile crossing her face.
There was silence, the kind that only happens when two people have given something wordless to each other.
She whispered, “We should shower.”
I caught my breath. “But you…”
She looked at me, her eyes soft. “I'm happy,” she said. “It’s okay.”
I was confused a bit and wanted more for her.
This was about connection. About wanting and being wanted. About love so deep that it didn’t need to be measured. It amazed me that this kind of passion was still happening nearly every day - like we were newlyweds. Yet, we were years into the life as husband and wife. It didn’t feel routine. It felt alive. Urgent. Sacred.
Afterward, she went to start the shower while I stayed in bed, a wave of serenity washing over me.
We were in love—because she was in love with me. Because I was in love with her. Because we had become, in so many ways, one.
“I love you,” she said as we stepped into the water together.
“I love you so much,” I replied, heart full.
Then I laughed softly.
“What?” she asked.
“I was just thinking of that song by The Moody Blues—the way the singer repeats those lines like he’s overcome, like he just can’t hold it in.”
I spoke the words that the singer in the song sang:
'Cause I love you,
yes, I love you,
oh, how I love you,
oh, how I love you…'
“That’s how I feel,” I told her. “I want to tell the whole world that I love Lynn.”
She smiled, the way she always did when she knew I meant every word.
And I did. I would have shouted it from rooftops. Not just after making love, but anytime. Every day.
That night, as I lay beside her, I started thinking about her dreams. About how much I wanted her happiness. She had talked about getting her Master of Fine Arts one day. Maybe I could help with that. Maybe I could buy her a kiln so she could fire her pottery at home. Maybe, with this practice I was building, I could give her more than just love. I could give her the things that filled her dreams.
I was in love. Not just based on the passion we shared but the peace and serenity that matched our connection together.