I believe that there is a love so pure, so spectacular — so magical, if you will — that is only found in the rarest of loves. This feeling which a person is lucky enough to find only once in their lifetime.
The only thing that makes sense about the power of this love is the rationalization that this type of love must and can only can exist in this way — in order to differentiate itself from all the prior and future pulls at the heartstrings.
In order to be — The One.
Many people probably believe they found it.
Maybe they lost it.
Maybe they believe they had it, or have it now.
Few people know, with absolute certainty.
The only parallels we are awarded in our lives are found in the purity of emotion upon clutching our own children as we hold them in the first days of their lives. The sheer magnitude of emotional bliss that overwhelms you, which I pray all parents must experience.
I know I did.
That is the only other emotion you will be fortunate enough to understand in life that feels a kinship to the power of the purest romantic love.
Shakespeareanesque.
The purity of passion, that when articulated properly in the written word, is used as a defining mechanism to separate the greatest poets from the merely extraordinary.
Upon being gifted with this eternal passion, you will recall the times you said “I love you” to others when you believed you meant it, and wish that a different word existed so you could express something far greater, because she deserves something better than a word previously spoken from your lips to another.
As you hold this woman, you realize it is she who holds you, in the cosmic sense.
If you didn’t recognize the similarity of the power of passion between that of holding your child and your love for her, then I am afraid to tell you that you are a believer — and not a knower.
That you do not know this power, although you think you may.
My advice is to become a knower — no matter the cost.
This cosmic pull is all but magic, as Robert would describe it of Francesca, in The Bridges of Madison County. Life experienced as blessed by the graces only found by engulfing your inner self in “The Old Ways,” never resisting your own inner voice and allowing yourself to dive as deep as you can in the feeling of her.
You, Kitten.
You are my Francesca.
The feel of my hardness combating your softness is the magnificence of literary grace. The scent of your hair haunts me as I realize the words I possess such as ache and need come nowhere close to the emotions that circulate my lexical frustrations as I reach for something better, in order to express the feels that pump through my veins.
Bleeding out my heart every day trying to convince myself I am not crazy. Am I? Then why are you feeling this too?
Who talks like this anymore?
I am expected to be writing of passionate sin for the audience who have come to expect it, yet the only words I can muster end up in praise of you.
Revisiting my muscle memory is all but a ritual now, accessing the visions of your naked form sprawled out beneath me, my eyes locked with yours as we are finally speaking those words that have never been invented and never will be, yet we say them anyway with our eyes.
Your complete and total submission to me is crystal clear as I pin you down to the mattress, entering your wetness and driving the fingers I type with deep inside you to break down what willpower is still left within you, which is very little, since the moment you met me.
I see you never had much, to begin with.
The synapses fire and my eyes and ears tell my brain to control you through my gift of adept dominance of your orgasms, one after another, breaking you down and making you cum for me yet one more time before I decide to take on a new approach.
Devoting my mouth to savor your taste and basking in the flavor of you, I cannot help but be encompassed in pride while I look up at you crumbling and falling apart, knowing my skill and attention to detail combined with my absolute unhinged inner passion for you is taking what is left of you.
Taking you to a world no man before me or after me will ever know. A place I will never know either, should I be honest. You cum again and I tell myself that the second time is the charm until I get overzealous for the third, and the fourth, and eventually, I just stop counting.
Still, nothing quite beats the orgasms that I know will be coming next. The ones with me inside you. Our bare-naked bodies meeting when I see your elegance unfold, when my hardness feeds you and you cum while I am deep in you. Hazel green eyes piercing yours, pouring my soul right into yours as we become one.
This is when I know.
When I know — I own you.
When I know — we are one.
When I know — that I love you.
That I deeply, deeply love you.
