It's all gone.
Hyperbole,
maybe,
but it feels that way.
I felt love
when I was young.
I felt less love,
and more desperation,
when my wife became very ill.
I turned to another woman,
in my desperation,
trying to use the excitement,
of making love with a new,
and therefore exciting
lover,
trying to use that excitement
to stimulate love.
That was with Carrie.
Then,
after Pam,
my wife,
died,
I tried to find a lover
close to home,
and found Bev.
She's sweet,
but I still don't feel much love,
inside me,
from her,
or to her.
Maybe a little.
Maybe enough.
I've been rehashing this topic
for the last couple of days,
because,
on my recent visit with Carrie,
Carrie dumped me.
I've known Carrie since 1973.
I think she'll call me again,
sometime soon.
But when she does,
I think I'll tell her no.
I only cried a little on the way home.
When I got back,
I started writing this diary.
I feel very little pain;
I feel very little love.
I have Bev,
who wants my body;
I have Tonia,
who wants my mind;
I have Lori,
who wants to go do things,
shop or eat out,
with me.
But I want someone
who wants the part of me
some call heart and soul,
the part that feels the right words to write,
as I'm writing now,
the part of me that finds great writing
in the comment threads,
great writing by others;
the poet in me,
the artist in me.
I want a woman
who can fall in love with that part of me.
Maybe that love,
from her,
would create some of that love,
inside me.
Maybe.
Thanks for reading.