Digging through my old things in search of a notebook small enough to stick in my purse for writing while out to lunch, I found a cool little hand-made leather-bound, notebook made in Victoria, B.C.  The leather – pliable, and red – is wrapped like an envelope around five sections of paper that are sewn in to create a makeshift binding. It isn’t sturdy, but it’s pretty and soft.

When I opened it to write, I found this inscription (which I had forgotten was there).

You are in a fair way to create a whole nation of lunatics. -Walt

I’m fairly certain it was used out of context…but, the crux is this – I had just a relationship, which for me had been purely sexual, but for him (15 years my senior) was obviously much more.

I wrote this untitled poem beneath the words…

Left behind
in the dust
I can write my name
draw flowers and hearts
stick figures holding hands
which will collect more dust
where I can write my epic tale
of death
of lust for life
of need for love
a craving for the tragedy
of possibility
held within a first kiss
the last touch
from one who was almost a lover
but could not sustain.

It was a phase in my life where I ate men like a carnivore who enjoyed the kill much more than the meal.  I was young and felt jilted by a former, long-term boyfriend.  It wasn’t like I was being intentionally vengeful.  But, I certainly wasn’t worried about anyone’s feelings.  Not even my own, really.  I had spent so many years being “good” and monogamous…and bored…in a relationship with a man who wanted sex less than a stereotypical unhappy middle-aged housewife.  It was degrading and disappointing.  And I was young enough and insecure enough to think it was my fault.

When I finally got out there, I kind of lost my head…I had several one-night stands (and I never called back in the morning like I said I would).  There was a certain air of freedom and power in the whole experience.

Eventually, I tired of it.  I looked high and low for someone I really liked and from whom I wanted more than sex.

I stopped looking.

And, as one would expect.  That’s when I found it.

Love is like a poem.  When you search for the right words, they usually do not come.  Language is slippery and wet…it doesn’t come when you want it to; you have to coax, caress, undress, and let it take you over.  A good poem, like a good love, is intoxicating, lustful – it makes you light-headed, weak in the knees, and warm in all the right areas.

I remember the first night I met my husband (face to face).  I’d already been talking to him for weeks, so I knew we had things in common, something to talk about.  But it was one of those moments (the unreal movie kind) when I made eye-contact, saw his eyes…those blue, blue, intense eyes and literally became weak.  Not in the “oh wow he’s hot” way.  More like the “do you have a room available right now” way.  It was that intense.  And while I will admit I can be easy (under the correct circumstances), I tend to present as stand-offish, even shy.  I couldn’t shut up that first night.  Nervous talking.  And then the asshole left me with a hug.  Totally reserved, and controlled…he hugged me goodnight.

Seriously?

Yes…he was that good.  Knew exactly what he was doing.

I could hardly wait to get him in the sack on the second date…my mental verbiage building to a crescendo of “JUST FUCKING GIVE IT TO ME ALREADY!”

Brilliant.

He still does that.  Damn him.

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