Through confession I’ve been found to have an affixation of such- her mannerism, the way she dress, the tenderness of her touch. I’ve danced a dance that only the truest of dying romantics do tell. Did I mention I love the way her hair smell. If only time could be so kind. If only the thousand words a picture could say, is spoken when needed to hear.
What passion prevails out of gentle words that stir the soul? What unbridled force leaves the heart swooning without reproach? Perhaps to find strength where weakness is all but except truly knowing…like the beauty of a rose, in its paramount moment of glowing.
It’s just that it seem it all ends where it once begun, in the arms of a lonely woman- sadly, my mother. Though now a lover whose heart truly never knew the tenderness of another.
—A Confession of Don Juan
