That word

It causes more problems than it solves, that word.

Sends senses off on a wayward wind, tumbling free. Followed closely by my emotions. No rhyme, no reason. An end to rational thought, contemplation, considered and rational belief.

Thought I’d been in love before. Clearly not. Just goes to show, you can never be too old to fall, and fall hard.

No one has ever had such a profound effect on me before. I am at a loss to adequately describe it, if I’m honest — which as a wordsmith both by trade and in my soul, does not sit well.


Believe me, he says, incredulously. If i didn’t want you around, you would know.

It’s not enough, I retort. I need to hear it. I am not capable of functioning until I hear it from you.

You really don’t know? he quizzes, arching an eyebrow and fixing me with a look. Clearly this is a big surprise to him.

I pause, wondering how best to illustrate the tsunami of raw emotion that has crippled me to my core of late. While he was not the sole cause – I am not quite as pathetic as this post is making me sound – he did, however, generate the biggest fallout. Emotional concussion, if you like. Why? Fuck knows. It just is what it is.

Deep breath: inhale.

Babe, I cried. I fucking wept. On your brother’s shoulder. Like a babe in arms. I had convinced myself and no rhyme or reason could convince me otherwise.

He smiles, engulfs me in the massiveness that is his gloriously sexy frame. Brings me in close, kisses me on the forehead, then lifts my chin so our eyes meet.

I’m not scared to say I love you. And I do, be sure of that.

I well up again, but this time with joy.

I know you. I trust you. 

I go to kiss him, he smiles and jokes around, holding me away from him until he finally acquiesces, and I lose myself in him.

It’s just… I thought it was understood. Between us. Mutual. 

I thought you knew. 




Clair de lune

moon-claire-de-luneTonight he returns. It’s been three long, tedious weeks of staring at my bound-in-synthetic-plaster leg, and sighing from the heat — and tonight he boards the plane to return.

There are several important and significant people who inspire in me a need to put my feelings into black and white. This one is the one who is *the one* — if that makes any sense.

I love them all, my men. Each in their own way delights and excites me — else why would I spend my time with them. And I care for them all deeply. They all know that exclusivity is not my way, and they accept it — I’m upfront about that from the word go. But there is one with whom I share the bond of the soulmate — and it is he of whom I write in this particular piece.

How do I describe that oh-so-subtle something that sets him apart? I do not wish in any way to sound overly sentimental and kitschy, so I turn instead to the higher power of Claude Debussy. The beauty of this piece in particular (and I have deliberately linked to the extended version) uses music to say the words that, for once, are failing my fingers.

What can I tell you? It must be love. It is love.