I am so immensely grateful that I have known the joy of a perfect love. I know that perfection is in itself a fantasy and so be it. I have known the rush, the excitement, the joy and the total sensual involvement of loving a person to the depths of my soul and the reaches of my heart.
I know what it is to ache and hunger for a word, a glance, a touch – the slightest recognition of our unique connection as one ecstatic union of two hearts entwined. I remember the emotions that reach to heights unimagined and down to the depths of despair. I know hunger and desire and the proverbial fire and ice that encompasses a relationship of infinite depth.
I hear our music and the experience repeats itself; I see another couple with those lights in their eyes and the electric current that is visible to the initiated, and I smile in memory. I write a story about characters touching these feelings and emotions and I borrow from my own, crying out for them to repeat.
And yet, for all the joy, I am damned. I am stuck forever in a fantasy that will never repeat, a memory that is long past, and a future that will never match that youthful experience no matter how special the person. I am still grateful. The muse that governs my pen and writes the stories was born in those moments and I am comforted. Life is romance; I live in its aura.