Love stories, songs, and poems have always been and will always remain popular. We fantasize about love and crave passion in our lives. It is no wonder art, literature, and music focused on one of our most basic desires appeals to us.

I've written in a wide variety of genres. Many times, my stories and poems have not held love as a focal element, but those stories and poems are the ones I've quickly forgotten, even if published. It is love that holds my interest and captivates my heart.

There is a trend to write gritty prose, the more demented the better, but for me such writing is not satisfying. I've even had one editor go so far as to say none of my poetry was worth reading except the poems filled with anger or sorrow. But to go to that dreary place in ones heart again and again isn't healthy. In fact, it seems like a fast track to depression on the outskirts of insanity.

Love, even if vicariously lived through characters in a book, has the capacity to uplift spirits. The world could use more of that.

I borrow romance from printed promises and emotions etched into pages I can touch. As long as there are words to show me it exists, I can dream a little longer.

Have I told you of these fantasies running naked in the summer rain with bare feet being tickled by the chartreuse moss? Lemon grass and ginger root mix their fragrance with honey-suckle. A halo of sweetness you weave for my hair.

The swing sways warm with your palms to kiss my waist each time the wind pushes me back into your arms and I fly, squinting to see quiet clouds, unafraid and weightless. I could jump and you would catch me.

We'd make love in a pile of petticoat ruffles, magenta magic blossoms from Crepe Myrtle's flamenco dress as you slap the skin of my tambourine causing me to jingle in the heat of a gypsy spell