I am a sensitive soul.
Perhaps too much for a man.
I sigh at beauty. I am enchanted by charm. I can get lost in a look.
I cry at sad movies, often glad of the dark.
I am a romantic, Sad songs in my ear buds. Black and white films in the winter. Meetings in steamy-window bookshop cafes. Walks by the swan-gliding river. Dinner in the flickering light of whispering candles.
A message on my phone that ends in a kiss.
I am a dreamer. A poet. Someone who will never forget the press of lips.
And sometimes, only sometimes, I am a fool.
Yet for all that, if I am hurt, I can become as hard and as cold as a Siberian frost.
And the doors to my heart
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Anne Magill
I wrote this almost exactly three years ago, and repeated the post two years ago and then a year ago. I am sure there were reasons for my writing the original. I am sure there must have been.
It captures the hopelessly romantic poet in me – and yet also the steel. A coldness, a stubbornness, a determination, an unbending will. I will never change. It is simply the way I am.
I hope it stands another repost.