Memory, Affective

This afternoon, I received the latest issue of the alumni magazine from Bennington College.

Between that and my reading of Augusten Burroughs’ memoir, <i>Dry</i>, something hit a chord with me, and I began thinking about Edward Fox.

Beautiful, beguiling Edward, all glossy black hair, bright hazel eyes, plush pink lips, and long, graceful fingers.

Lovely Edward–otterlike, sleek, hands and chest and arms furred over.

Charming Edward, so skilled at dance, so quick to laugh, his mouth a sharp white flash.

Edward, who never needed to do a single drug in his life: he was a drug, uncut, unmediated.

Edward, whose lips would never kiss mine, whose hands would never ghost over the nape of my neck.

Edward, who was the great love of my life–a perilous Muse to a heartsick poet.

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