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It's a warm summer night, and I just got off the internet with him. I'm listening to the lyrics from a Red Hot Chili Peppers song, "Californication," especially the verse "The sun may rise in the east, at least it settles in the final location, It's understood that Hollywood sells Californication." The sun does rise in the east, where he lives in Utah, and sets in my west, sinking into the ocean lapping at my feet in the City of Angeles I call home. He soaked up the sun and sat in the sand at the shores of the very ocean I look at and think of him. I'm sitting here, remembering the last time it was this hot in the Valley, and why having him here made it even hotter. Chris is hundreds of miles away, while it feels like other side of the world, and it takes everything in me not to jump in a plane and find him. His hands are probably covered with the dust and grime of his task, but I wouldn't care if it meant he was holding me. His body is a work of art, sculpted and chiseled solely from the efforts of an honest night of work. His body is tight, and potent, it moves with this energy that feels it will escape him. He moves with purpose, and seems so in control of everything. Of his endless beautiful qualities and features, one of my favorites is his face. His jaw line is so powerful, made of stone, and frames a face that is peaceful at night. I can remember tracing my finger along that jaw line each night I stayed in his arms, feeling the gentle movement of him breathing, and the soft sounds that would escape him at night. He would sleep while I gazed upon him, amazed that I met him, and desolate with the knowledge that he is here for just a flash, and gone just as quickly as he came. He's not mine to ...

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