Writing Love Stories

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.

Losing My Muse

The truth is, years ago, I fell in love with a woman who one day decided her life was moving in a different direction and I was left behind. My recovery took many years, in fact a friend of mine, one time pointed out that for several days all I did was talk about the loss, and I needed to change my focus.

So I did, after some time, I knew I was still in love, but ironically, I found out she had been sleeping with my best friend for months, so suddenly everything made sense, and I started to get past my broken heart. The one thing I said to myself was that I would never fall in love to such a degree again.

Jump a few years later and I decided to settle down with a woman whom had similar goals as mine – we got married, but I knew going in – this is a sad reality – I would never love again the way I had. I would simply be content. We have beautiful children together and we made a life. Sadly though I’ve never been happy, and I cannot imagine she has been. Despite it all we stayed together.

Embedded within all of this common reality is an experience I discovered while in grad school. Many years ago, I met a woman whom carried a similar energy as my own. We began writing letters and discovered a love for words, something I had missed with a woman for many many years. we then took it a step further and became intimate, spreading years between those early days of romantic parchment to now an enticement with one another. One day, in the winter, very much like our present season, I felt I must tell her that I loved her, and I did, but she heard me wrong – and the timing unraveled our affections. We had been walking around with an ‘is this all there is’ and I was afraid to tell her that I loved her because I thought I would lose her. It back fired and we fell apart. I returned fully – as much as possible – to my marriage, a broken and confused man – struggling with my reality, while a woman I loved faded out of my life.

I looked for her over the years, knew where she was but let her go. I even deleted her phone number so I wouldn’t be tempted. It wasn’t until years later I discovered she would call my voice mail with certain music that touched my heart.

A few years ago, a decade after we had gone our ways we did encounter one another, and over the course of several months we realized we were both quite in love, and our courtship outside of our marriages began again. We expressed our desires at the same time knowing we could not maintain the level of passion we experienced together but we always assured ourselves we probably would never leave this in the same circumstances as years ago.

I had found my muse and the mystique of her beauty and elegance became again, as it was without her directly in my life, the drive for my sensual poetry. Now, I am in a place where I no longer have the inspiration and that aspect of my writing is impacted, so I struggle with my words.

The one true thing I will finish with is I’ve just written a fantasy that I hope you the readers might have enjoyed. Because, there seems no reality in my words.

So now my days are spent searching for my muse, knowing love once again played its harmony with great zeal and slapped my heart and soul with disparaging abandon.

When I Opened My Twitter Feed Today

I found the usual – writings, commentaries, notions, desires, wants, reprimands, slams, wishes – every aspect of anything we might desire, hope for, imagine, fantasize. In recent weeks what speaks to me more is the beautiful sensuality of writers speaking from their hearts of loves, passions, needs, imagines.

I realized I want as much as everyone of the writers I follow, and then along with that I realized it is time for me to look at what is real in my own world. I love erotica, I love sensuality, I love the avenues this page and my twitter and other outlets have allowed me the avenue to speak to my own imagined desires. Yet there is something now in the reality of all of this fantasy.

It is difficult for me now to read of a beautiful person’s yearnings because I understand them, but not as much as I once did in the beauty of the moment, the reachable touch of desire inside the realm of drawing a visual of such intrigue. Today that sensuality is alone in my mind, the mystique of which, the yearning leaves me quiet.

I won’t post on Twitter for awhile, in fact, I probably won’t read that often because the majority of my follows are those beautiful artists of erotica and sensuality, and it just brings tears to my eyes because I cannot feel that and I need to not feel that. I have the sense of loss that I cannot fill and with every glance the reminder tells me that perhaps a sabbatical is a good idea.

I think soul-searching sucks sometimes. I understand its value. I realize the need. But in this writing today, it is obvious, I do not yet know where it is I am going. Taking smaller steps, shorter breaths, staying alive.