"Go ahead, write your sad little songs," the taunt went. Well, the truth is, I don't have any. Seems I've always worried about making the love stay. She told me once that she worried that I had fallen out of love. I hadn't. I haven't. It has taken me a very long time to feel like I have any kind of handle at all on the nature of romance, at least from my perspective.
Someone once wrote, "If you don't want your life written about, don't love a writer."
If I don't write about my life, I don't work. Oh, I make up murders and wild times every now and then. I might make up something so that a line will rhyme or change a story to amuse myself. For the most part, though, I just jot down ramblings from the front of my mind.
Over a lifetime I now see that some form of conflict was necessary to end a love affair. Anger or jealousy or some form of hostility had to wash away the passion. Blame is always handy.
Finally, finally, I see that falling in love is like falling anywhere else. You may get up and dust yourself off. You may climb out of the hole. Nothing changes about your fall, though. The love, if it is love, stays. That's not sad.