You think I am romantic.
You read my words and you read ‘love’ into them.
But I hardly ever use the word.
It is too big and too small. Too specific and too universal.
It has been idolised, eulogised, exalted, celebrated, hymned and acclaimed.
It has been hijacked, railroaded, politicised, kidnapped, blackmailed, broken, ruined and whored.
It has been given and taken, lost and found, borrowed and stolen.
It has been used as a reason for everything, an answer for everything, an excuse for everything.
It has been devalued by so many wanting it, by so many selling it.
So I hardly ever use the word ‘love’.
I write of lust, desire, longing, and yearning. Of sensuality, sex and eroticism. Of arousal and excitement. Of seduction and initiation. Of pleasure and pain. Of Domination and submission. Of attraction and infatuation. Of caring. Of nurture. Of adoration. And yes, of romance too.
Because I know exactly what those words mean.
And if I ever write of love – and I sometimes do
I make sure I know exactly
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not the first time I have said this
Art by William Oxer