A Love Story, Perhaps

This one would probably be best described as the things I miss, when in love. It is the little things after all, that seem to come back into our mind when we wish to remember. When we haven’t actively put memory out of our mind, it can be quite pleasant to recall the beauty of engagement.

Walking in the rain one night, we circled around a city block, occasionally finding shelter, not to hold one another, only to find some sort of refuge from the rain, both like teenagers, hesitating to bring ourselves any closer to one another, just fleeting imagination we both were afraid to share. It wasn’t until minutes before we got into our cars to depart, she told me she wished I would have just grabbed her and kissed her. Of course, I drove home in tears not knowing how to deal with the sudden confusion I felt in my heart, knowing our spontaneity was beginning to wane. Or perhaps it had already.

Another walk after having coffee together, we found ourselves in a square, less romantic really just a parking lot in early winter, but there were windows everywhere – we could have imagined it to be some European plaza if we allowed our sense of imagery run away with our hearts. We found an open passage in an alley that would eventually take us back to our cars. Walking into this little hovel, we noticed dark, perhaps abandoned windows all around us, and a high picket fence, where then I did press myself again her in a moment of passion and we both fantasized living in the stucco shelter nearby where we might make love well into the night, the morning, the life we could lead together.

Then there is the simple gesture of being together, sharing a coffee with one another and the smile she would have in her expression every time I would take a pen, a pin, an object and punch a bigger hole in the breather of my coffee lid, it became an endearment that I liked to do – the reason so the coffee would flow better of course – but really just being able to put a smile on her face.

Finally, standing in a sort of mock tower in a park one early evening in winter, imagining just how sensual our illusions could be, alone, wilderness, in love.

Just the little things I guess perhaps make up real love stories.

Letters, Words, Love

I love a good letter. I think the art of writing a letter with passion has always been one of my favorite activities, an outlet, an opportunity to share beauty with another. There is a certain elegance in letter writing; even the simplest correspondence with a friend, nothing romantic can be a wonderful thing I believe. However, that romantic flourish of sweet delight and a cherished response holds the truth to the wonder of words.

I remember the first time I wrote her. I was a nervous wreck. There was this sweet bond we had with each other, though we knew our time was limited, however the fortune of email was upon us. I think I asked her one day, or perhaps we had our correspondence in the class we were taking, so I penned a note to her saying hello, and wondering about her life. I wanted my words to move her, even though I knew I probably shouldn’t. I was drawn to her, and I wanted to know more. I hadn’t been able to write words like those I wrote to her that first time to anyone for years. I was married for over a decade and my spouse, though I was writing daily had no clue about how important words were to me, so when suddenly I discovered a person who might relate to my words, I took the chance.

She responded. I was smitten from the moment. I couldn’t wait to write her again, and a few days later I would hear from her. I began to expand my words and she would match the sweet romantic nature of my words with discussion, telling me about her world, the sweet beauty of listening to nature outside of her home. I had no idea her life, but I felt like I was able to sit in her backyard with her and experience the moment.

I think it was then we began to fall in love; however so much confusion engulfed our lives we didn’t know how to move forward. Yet again, we made the choice and suddenly we were in each other’s arms for the next few years, a certain magnetism that had us willing to be with one another for as long as this would last.

I reflect now on words, how it was we were able to pen our thoughts to one another, in such synchronicity we would anticipate answering one another’s deeper emotions.

These moments turned to love and began to write our story. Love has a certain affinity with words and letters.

When A Cool Wind Struck

How often do we remember departures from love? Can we recall the time and place, the moment. Looking back over the years, all of these memories had a significant moment. The more I delve, the more they come flooding to me, and I have a certain fear of returning to these moments. I’m not really sure why I am choosing to go back, perhaps it is part of my desire to recall the whole aspect of love from the joys to the pain.

My first real love was in college, we spent all of days together, we thought about living together, but either the means or our own fears kept us from making that decision. Though we were inseparable, I recall the day we began to move away from each other. I had to make a stop somewhere and while she waited in the car, a song came on, that I had heard many times but never acknowledged with her. The song was her name, and when I got in the car, she was listening, and she turned to me and said this song is about me, and it was, a woman finding her way, and leaving.

Later in life I would meet my next love who would take me to Europe and somewhere on the travel it was clear we were in our final days. There was a night in particular, staying in a hovel in Ireland, my bags packed, I imagined waking up early and leaving, knowing there was no reason to stay. Later that morning as we were having breakfast I looked her in the eyes and I noticed there were tears. I suggested we make the last leg of our trip the best we could, and we did, knowing when we returned to the States it would be our final days.

My last story stems around a drive home. We began a conversation about the holidays, I guess it was me that broached the subject. We spoke of the blues, and how the time of year can be really tough on people, and probably more trying for the two of us. I remember a silence then I could never dissuade from that moment on. I could feel it and without going into detail, I can feel it today.

I suppose a cool wind is the only way I might attach a metaphor to the loss of love. The breeze is apparent and you can feel the chill as if there is no way to find shelter from that impending storm ahead. I suppose finding the beauty in the warm winds of love and the elegance we feel in reminding ourselves of the lasting memory does help stem the tide. I suppose appreciation is better than focusing on alternatives.

I suppose love holds reign on the cool breeze as much as it does a scorching sunset.

This Is Love

I return here everyday, not geography, a state of mind. I question my motives, is it need, a want, a dependence, or the wonder I wish it to be. I go with the latter as it leaves me a sweet state of mind. I imagine her look, a glance, checking in, not wishing the pain of absence as much the sense of knowing we are out here in our world, together in our mind.

There is something truly wonderful about love, far beyond the insecurity of a wandering desire. A passion exists that with my morning gives me yearn, a confidence that some internal memory keeps our psychic energy together, imagining, loving.

Sometimes the words are not necessary to overstate when truth speaks silence.

A Love Story

The other day I got in my car to drive to a local coffee shop. It is a place I like to frequent because the energy is strong, and I feel closer to her when I am there. As I drove out of my parking lot, I didn’t think about George Harrison’s ‘All Things Must Pass’ until pulling up to a red light, and realizing the impact of the song and how fitting the moment might be. Instead of turning around, I kept driving forward because on this day, I just wanted to be there. I could feel the moment . I was convinced I wasn’t alone.

Music is a major force in my life. When I wish to write in a certain mindset I will carefully select the genre of music I listen to. So listening to Harrison speak of moving forward and recognizing the beauty of what has occurred was poignant and yet I resisted its reality despite myself. The outcome of my night. I drank a cup of coffee, wrote a couple of pieces, and watched cars pull in and out of the coffee shop for a few hours before going home. I wasn’t upset, I was simply trying to piece life together.

On my way home, Paul McCartney’s ‘Maybe I’m Amazed’ played the final miles of my drive. Yes I had tears, and yes they felt cleansing. I was going through something, and music as it always does brought me somewhere that left me feeling ok, and allowed me to imagine that she was ok as well. I hoped as much.

I had begun that Friday night compelled to not write any letters, and yet, in a moment of weakness I did write a letter, and as soon as I sent it I felt like I had made a mistake. The mistake was not in my expression of love, it was more in my struggle with separation and peace. I wanted to believe I wasn’t alone in what I was feeling, and the quiet and silence I was receiving left me nervous and sad. I felt a disconnect from our last interaction and I knew in my heart the reason.

I asked for an explanation and didn’t expect to receive one.

The next morning, her words arrived for my eyes, and I laid in bed with sweet tears. I listened to her reason for silence and it made complete sense. I wanted to hold her and let her know I recognized her need for peace, I wanted her to know I understood, I wished she might be able to see that I was ok, and I only wanted to know that she was ok. In the end her last line gave me a certain soft place to land, as I read it over and over again and paid attention to the acknowledgment of love.

I do wish so much that we could express our beauty in the elegance of what we found with each other, and yet I respect we cannot, always. We can sometimes, and we know that there will be times that the support we give one another will far outweigh the support we seemingly lack in our real lives. So the confusion continues, yet not as severely, more assuredly meant to let our lives evolve.

I still miss her.

I still listen to the Bridge.

Driving home tonight I listened to ELO’s – telephone line – ❤️