Bookstore Visits

The first time we met outside of a classroom was a bookstore – we would drive away from school knowing in a few miles we would have some time to spend together. There was one time when we ran into a fellow student from class, who gave us a knowing look and departed into the stacks. We smiled with a sort of nervous response, but this new mystique, this passion we felt suddenly took over.

I begin with this to set up the reality of our departure. A few years later, we would continue to start our nights, our days, our moments together from another familiar book store. There was more intensity. I would find her reading select classics, perhaps Anais Nin, something deeply romantic and penetrating my psyche with a fascination for her mind. She often had a different book in her hands, inspiring me to pick them up myself and read chapters, read words that spoke loudly of a certain aristocratic elegance, matching the sensuality she offered to me without conditional response. There was one time she carried Edna Vincent Millay’s poetry for a few weeks, and I became a lover of her words. Years after we parted I listened to Prudence Johnson a midwestern celebrity of folk music of sorts, create a rendition of lyric with Millay’s words. I listened with an immediate draw to my dear muse’s memory, and held her in my heart wishing she could share such magic with me, rather than the two of us being miles apart from one another’s lives.

I’m reminded of the bookstore, and our many endeavors together. For certainly a year after we parted I returned to that bookstore, hopeful we might encounter one another just once, to see each other’s eyes and realize immediately we were not mistaken.

Today, I sit near that bookstore writing these words, as a week ago, I said I never would again. So foolish is the heart, that holds the key to a soul in finding peace. I’m here every day. How could I possibly not be, in the face of love?

Words, drawn with passion and mystique, the sensual wonder of knowing there is sweet remedy in the fateful nature of a truly romantic story. Ah, the bookstore visits.

Just One Night

A winter’s night, sweet passion that left the windows of our car steamed waiting for that handprint from a famous movie. Yet we weren’t filming, we were simply making love, and trying to turn hours into minutes because we knew soon we would leave ourselves to another world we were becoming increasingly less familiar.

Though there was tension. The words, ‘Is this all there is’ had become a regular mantra that he wasn’t able to overcome, he couldn’t find the right words. Like an Eagle’s medley every night that he could, he would be out the door heading to her side of town. They’d meet halfway, a familiar spot, their hide away. The kiss would become some lasting memory that we each couldn’t wait to begin, our hands everywhere, the heat of our passion letting winter’s fierce presence melt around our lives.

We began our good-byes, it became apparent something was changing. Again, driving over I had made a decision. after 2 1/2 years I could no longer hide my feelings. I needed to tell her, but I was so scared. I was afraid my words would change us forever. I had to let her know, the whole drive over, the night before, every night, all I did was think about her. I knew I was truly falling in love with her.

She stepped out of my car, put her hand on my window and mine on hers, and I rolled the window down and said, ‘I love you’ and she stopped, paused, turned and gave me a strange look, and asked me what I had just said. I was so scared, I said nothing more, just shook my head. It was at that point I thought I had made a huge mistake and had made the fantasy too real. I felt rejected, She walked to her car, and I drove home in tears. I think we took one more drive after that and it was not a pleasant one. We never said good-bye, we just drove away.

Apparently there were calls to our phones at work the next few weeks. I didn’t know, and tonight as I write this the tears I feel are the ones that wish I could go back a decade and retrace my steps, and make sure she heard my words.

I love you.

This is a Love Story – in parts

Perhaps a song on the radio, the most familiar way to recall the one we love. A drive along a familiar bi-way where conversations took place, hands were held, knowing smiles replace the lonely absence. A farmhouse on a piece of land that had a place to sit and run our hands through landscaped rocks while watching the woods. A bench in a park that held our lives together, alone with such sweet sensuality impossible to ignore. A walk further in, a familiar bridge in a rustic wild in a place that felt like Purgatory.

Trying to figure out ways to recall what love means is certainly a struggle when one is alone with the memory. Seeing a kiss in a movie reminds me of that one time, or any time or any moment, or that moment. Looking outside into a tranquil wintry afternoon leaves the mind imagining an experience, a time when conversation turned to intimacy, turned to eyes, and what love seemingly did mean in the moment. All these memories, all of this confusion.

I’m listening to the Moody Blues, because this is always the place I go when I try to find my center. Now more than ever, the feeling of sentiment has turned to regret, a pause in the romantic nature of whom we were, and now trying to find a way to walk out of the woods with a smile rather than a broken heart. It is a memory that recalls beauty and in that recollection the melodrama perceived in the reader’s eyes matters little to the writer, for he will experience the emotion, and the reader can choose to walk away.

I’ve written for miles my confusion with love. In my basement there are volumes of memory over decades of time, that someday I might page through, but for the moment I’m drawn away because I know the memories are too strong and I don’t want to find myself somewhere I would rather return to than just recall. Yet, today, the memory is immediate, still strong, still this is defining who I am every day when I wake and when I go to sleep. The love I feel is swollen in my heart and there is little room to breathe.

So this passage is only meant to touch on what is this meaning of love I continue to search for answers to, my soul searching sometimes bringing me to tears – I try to call them wonderful tears because without the sensation of what I feel, I could not cry with the feeling and cleansing I do find myself lost in. I wonder if that makes sense to any of you readers, the point is that despite heartache, my inability to find home again, I’m still always wanting this time to be a beautiful mystique without the negative fortune of loss.

This is a love story.

A Year Ago

I need to be clear. This blog will gradually become my place to heal. Those readers that follow, well I appreciate your eyes, your read, your compassion, and your patience with who I am and who I become … I am a person whom has become completely alone in one sense of the word. In many other aspects I am very connected with my colleagues, my children, my people that I interact with every day. In other words, I really haven’t anything to complain about if this was truly the life I did wish to live. The problem is it is not.

Today is Valentine’s Day – it is not a day I’ve ever relished. When I was younger and without someone on this day, I would spend the hours envious and morbidly sad. Over time I became one of the anti -V day contingent enjoying the sarcasm and cynicism that comes with the territory. Years later I did marry, and since we have celebrated a dinner for the past nearly three decades. This year we stayed home, and while she watches TV, I write in this blog, something that has become routine in recent years.

Up until around four years ago, I was convinced I would live out this life in the rather quiet manner I have, trying to be content and yet always aware that there might be so much more out there in my life. I spoke to someone once who said if you are going to be happy, you need to take action. I have reasons to not, it’s complicated. So today I continue to reflect. I looked back a year ago, and found a letter that said the same as anything I have written time and time again. I then went back two years earlier, and discovered the reason I am still here.

Happy Valentine.

Always here.

Would You Then

If in the quiet moonlight,

we danced, our eyes,

suggestive,

would you if my lips

did find a naked shoulder

a nervous gasp …

 

Would you then,

while my hands now

felt liberty

the fabric that might entice

a man to explore further,

while you rose in my palms

my lips now buried in

your neck,

soft to reach your passion

 

might you as I did fingertips

find your buttocks,

the extension of my hand

directed by a movement

drawn in sequence to your own mouth

insistent upon my own,

tongues twirling,

 

Would you then find your center

to come alive for the beauty of such is

a delicious notion

while your eyes

turned to the sea

to allow my own waves of desire

let us drift toward some

long forgotten island of

sweet sensuality …

 

would you imagine while I did begin.

When Found

beauty

When found,

I have felt your presence

an already gasp,

swift temptation is mystique

inside her

is a melodrama meant to

design man’s meaning.

 

Mix night sky with

a soft response in her touch

his need to explore

she is sensuality

in the midnight

reckoning

of man’s desire

woman’s intrigue

a soul already found

whether lust or need

my heart aches

to be found sweeping

hands across

woman

in all of her elegance.

 

I would if I could might

witness the beauty

inside your quiet

release,

center is alive

such is a need

to find

sensuality beyond

our own silent

insecurity

 

Oh, there are these lines

I wish to do

with you

forever

in a midnight sky


~ finding my way, a personal journey ~

picture found on Pinterest

On Writing Erotica

Oh, to find sauce in the sweep of a tongue,

to linger in gasp

might we some way know a path

along his center,

the long and drawn out slide of exploration,

to feel her response,

the sweet touch a nectar of truth

when cradling moans become such wild

release,

not yet we will always say,

trying to find

an edge,

know when she, he,

when they as one

wish us, wish them

find our center together

in such is this our explosive mantra,

the sensuality of the human condition

discovered.

 

Oh it is alluring,

the mind wishes to travel

inside the fantasy

of sin,

a practiced sexuality,

the mystique of woman,

the brazen nature of man,

the combination of some swift surreal

engagement of this

our universal gender driven desire

to offer sweet solace,

sweaty and spent,

in each other’s arms,

legs intertwined,

minds as one.

 

We need the eyes for everything to be real.

On Eyes

If you have looked in eyes,

beauty is there,

the chance of a moment to reflect

in each other’s soul

exists

when two lovers do allow time

to fall into the ocean of their eyes.

 

Time will move to forever

rather now

strings of shelter slip away

so beauty inside the passionate

nature of love

can explode like that sparkle

the glint, the sensuality

we might feel when we allow

the real of a moment

when relying only upon

the eyes.

 

I stand alone,

a person walks by,

we announce one another,

continue on our way,

and I know today,

there will be no one in my life

whose moment

I can count upon

to rest my weary heart

on eyes.

 

Oh to be inside the presence

of such is the lovely chance.