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Bonfire

 

In the half light

It is over.

He says it to himself out loud, testing the meaning, trying to gauge how much hurt there is in those four hard syllables. He does not flinch as they bruise the air.

He has been here before. He knows how to cope, The procedure, the action, the process he must follow.

He begins by telling himself he feels nothing. He shrugs his shoulders, hardens his jaw, stiffens his lip. He is determined, resolute, strong.

He knows there is an exorcism to perform, a ritual, a ceremony, an extraction, an eradication. He must obliterate, wash out, abolish, expunge.

He is methodical, thorough, determined. He does not hesitate. He removes her name from his contacts, removes her telephone number, removes every address of any kind, removes every reference, removes her birthday.

He makes certain he cannot show weakness in the future, He cannot bow to sentiment, He cannot make a fool of himself.

He can never be tempted to tell her he wants her.

With great certainty of purpose he blocks her or unfollows her on all the social media, all the networking, all the blogs, all the messaging they shared.

Finally he builds a huge, raging, hungry, devouring, virtual bonfire of everything that would remind him of her.. He deletes all her photographs and videos. He deletes their e-mails. He deletes their messages. He deletes their texts. He deletes their words.

He deletes their history.

He does not look at any of it as it vanishes into the flames His fingers are precise, cold, dispassionate, tapping at the keyboard.

He leans back in his chair.

It is done. It is over.

He takes a deep, dangerous breath.

He blames the tears running down his face

on the smoke

from the bonfire.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

 
48 Comments

Posted by on April 28, 2014 in Lovers Past, Still Life

 

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Not a strength

Her head on the pillow

Desire.

That longing for someone.

Sometimes difficult to untangle from other feelings. Friendship, admiration, wanting that which is not mine. Perhaps even love..

Desire has filled my days with breathlessness and with desperate hope. It has ruined sleep with longing and with twisted sheets.

And even when desire is requited, the hunger returns. Often before she is fully dressed. A glimpse of thigh to make my pulse quicken.

Yet where does it all go?

How does that impossible ache, that yearning, that hunger all disappear, disperse, evaporate? What happens to that seemingly endless need for the perfection of her skin, for the miracle of her cheekbones, for the eloquence of her eyes, the sculpture of her breasts, the geometry of her calves and thighs,

What is that quenches the flame?

I have reached the conclusion that it is her exit that extinguishes the light.

There is some defence within me that cannot long for that which does not wish to be mine. The beauty who bore another man’s child. The girl who could not believe in me. The long time lover who needed a forever I would not give. The submissive who could not be mine completely. The lovely young woman who simply drifted away.

My pride will not allow me to be a victim.. To plead, to reach out, to cling, to beg, are not things I have ever done. Or ever can do.

I simply, somehow, completely inexplicably, after a brief period of silent mourning, let go.

And desire for her gently subsides. It ebbs away from me.

And yet I wish it were not so.

It is a weakness, not a strength.

.

.

Copyright : The author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph given to me a long time ago.

 

 
43 Comments

Posted by on March 4, 2014 in D/s, Lovers Past

 

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Embrace

asencio_13172_2

 

Embrace

.

Yet while I could never

love again

the body that has lain

in the arms of another,

I will remember

every single embrace

the touch of her perfect skin

on mine

forever.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Henry Asencio

 
19 Comments

Posted by on February 20, 2014 in Lovers Past

 

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Just Once

SANYO DIGITAL CAMERA

Some pretend.

They deny it. They convince themselves that they are content. That they have all they need. That they do not want for more. That there are no dark desires, no moments of wildness, no wish to be someone different, or to do something different.

Some don’t pretend.

They know it. But they keep it from themselves. They bury it. Ignore it. Hold it back. They find fantasies in other people’s lives rather than enjoy them in their own. They think there is always time. Some day. Some other life. They never let themselves go. They will miss it as it sails past.

I have never met anyone who does not, openly or secretly, desire a different path. Even if it is only fleeting. One breathtakingly differently page in a whole book of life.

One soaring, beautiful, glorious flight.

We all wish for release.

Just once.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Natassia

 
46 Comments

Posted by on January 16, 2014 in Still Life

 

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As only a woman can

rojo-sillon

She finds herself falling.

She studies her face in the mirror. Unchanged but different. A new light in her eyes. A smile playing like sunbeams upon her lips.

There is a lightness in her step and a dizziness in her head. She feels herself dance as she walks. She is conscious of her clothes, her curves, her bearing, and of her movement. She is attracting admiring glances. She is barely interested in the attention..

She is overwhelmed by a new, wild sense of freedom. And yet filled with the deeply sensual joy of belonging.  All at the same time.

She is his. She is adored. She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair.

She softly murmurs the song that reminds her of him.

She gives herself up completely to romance, to love, to desire. And to control

As only a woman can.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

 

 
24 Comments

Posted by on November 15, 2013 in D/s

 

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When she falls

Dressed to Kill by Jack Vettriano

When She Falls

 

She has that look.

Something in the eyes.

In the line of her nose.

The tilt of her chin.

The set of her jaw.

She is bright, brave and assured.

But when she falls,

she will fall.

.

She has that smile.

Something in the curve.

In the line of her mouth,

The shape of her lips.

The show of her teeth.

She is cool, collected and poised.

But when she falls,

she will fall.

 

She has that way.

Something in the words.

In the sweep of her thoughts.

The pride in her voice,

The ice in her veins,

She is proud, aloof and secure.

But when she falls,

she will fall.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 
31 Comments

Posted by on October 20, 2013 in D/s, Poetry

 

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Over You Revisited

black_beauty_by_tomekkarol-d4hkqi0

Over You

.

She caught my eye

She’s something new.

A different dress.

A different shoe.

And now I know

I’m over you.

.

I gave her words

Like I did with you.

A different smile

A different view

And now I know

I’m over you.

.

She broke my heart

Far worse than you.

A different pain

A different blue.

And now I know

I’m over you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from TomekKarol

Originally posted in April 2013

 
12 Comments

Posted by on October 12, 2013 in Lovers Past, Poetry

 

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Not Falter

man_in_the_rain_by_roxess-d46ig47

Not Falter

.

He can sense her in every footstep.

Every cracked, grey paving slab,

Every rust-red, crumbling brick,

Every light-filled, laughing window,

Every mocking, welcoming sign.

.

He will not bend.

He will not falter.

.

He can see her in every stranger.

Every passing, dark hunched shadow,

Every bare-legged, smiling girl.

Every wide-eyed, staring child.

Every joyful, oblivious lover.

.

He will not bend.

He will not falter.

.

He can feel her in every heartbeat.

Every rapid, strained, urgent breath

Every drum-tight, bursting sinew

Every white-knuckle, clenching fist

Every streaming hot angry tear.

.

He must not bend.

He must not falter.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo by Roxess

I wrote this in a a spare hour a week or so ago at the request of someone pulling together an anthology under the overall title of ‘Struggle’. It is a rough and ready poem, but it captures a moment in my life.

 
15 Comments

Posted by on September 23, 2013 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Never, ever.

smitten84

They have escaped.

Their bolt-hole, far beyond the cities, out of reach of the railway, along narrow roads of high wind-swept hedges. Where the sea is always cold and clean and the air is fresh; mewing with gulls and tangy with salt on the rugged coast.

Where their walls are stone and two feet thick, the floors wood and slate, the same reassuring grey as the roofs and the sky when it is brooding. Where there is no telephone, no broadband, almost no connectivity in the ether. Where work has been left far behind and any lover is out of reach.

They are easy together. They have grown as close as blood family over the many years of knowing. They are silent often, contentedly sharing each others’ thoughts. They read, listen to music, walk for miles across the wild countryside, laugh at the same things. They eat and drink well. Expensively and healthily. He writes. She designs.

She is tall, elegant, slim, intelligent, shy and blonde. He is taller, long-limbed, distinctive, creative, with friendly but sometimes piercing eyes.  They are a well matched couple.

But they never, ever fuck.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

 
22 Comments

Posted by on July 31, 2013 in Wears my ring

 

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Her Secret

After Midnight by Jack Vettriano

‘Your eyes are blue tonight.’ she says.

He smiles, and touches her cheek with his long fingers. She nuzzles her face into his palm.

‘Sometimes they are green. When you are distant. Or angry. Or sad.’  She peers into them. ‘They are such strange eyes – that amber halo around the pupil.  Like a solar eclipse.’

He leans forward and kisses her forehead. His lips linger on her skin.

‘They were the first thing I noticed about you,’ she continued. ‘They stopped me in my tracks.’

‘Like a train?’ he questions.

She punches him gently on the arm.

They were piercing. It was as if you knew who I was instantly. As if you were reading my thoughts before I could think them. As if you knew half my secrets there and then.’

‘Do you have any secrets?’  He grins, and stares hard at her.

She withdraws her chin from his hand.

‘You are my only secret.’ She murmured sadly, her own eyes filling with tears. 

‘And I wish you didn’t have to be…’

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art : After Midnight by Jack Vettriano

 
22 Comments

Posted by on June 20, 2013 in Lovers Past

 

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