I’m a romantic. I love a good story of passion between two people, from the scintillating nature of their sensuality, to the quiet elegance of touch in an intimate moment that reflects what eyes will search upon. I love the notion of heart and soul obsession with one another, a constant of the desire and wishful nature of finding one another imagining the beauty of whom they are, they might be, together. I do so enjoy being able to create a wonderful love story in poetry, one that causes arousal in the reader, a sort of take me away fantasy that leaves them grateful for the adventure.
I have found myself struggling in recent months because I have this seemingly fraudulent experience with love, and so I began writing about first loves, long ago loves, times in my life where I recognized love to be something that took away all of my loneliness, so completely I couldn’t feel anything except the beauty of sweet delight inside the mystique of love. The word fraudulent is a powerful assessment I can only attribute to my being alone with my feelings. Oh that wasn’t always the case, but it is today. The reasons are not negative, they are more based upon preservation.
Personally, I’m willing to take risk for the love I feel; however, in order for it to be real, then both parties have to feel the same. One cannot outdo the other’s focus upon finding peace with themselves. One can only support the efforts of another. That to me is love. There exists the confusion of love as well, because one might still believe what the other has convinced themselves as otherwise.
There exists again my struggle, so now my love stories have trepidation. They contain unknowns because only I am writing them, and I haven’t clue their reception. I only know there continues to be in my heart the beauty of woman, the muse, the loveliness of a person whom holds my heart and soul, and gathers the energy that allows me on occasion to find the words necessary to continue the next chapter of my love story.