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.


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