Thinking about when we first met

I was just quietly thinking about when we first met.
How suddenly the eaten-without-tasted heartache and pining so dramatically bled from my pen in so many verses, dripped from dog-eared charts scribbled drunken and blindly with no foundation or conscience became real to me.
Stranded in the charm of fictitious romance and lovelorn scripts, abashed in their sundering themes. Those prurient plots consumed me constantly. From the time that I was a child, I listened with an absorbent and fixated heart to the highly colored, overwrought passions of radio soaps and attended spectacularly stylized operas in their original formats and interpretations. Indelibly imprinted with the heroics of twenty-foot matinée idols who loved and lost with virtuous elegance and grandeur.
I became impassioned with writing dreamscapes of tumultuous love scenes. Portrayed on larger than life billboards while every volt of vehemence was translated with pristine melody.
Constructions of tear-rain bittersweet fiction, off set by cloudless engrossing arrangements that were simply beyond anything I felt was touchable.
I could indeed write love songs but was ever unmoved.

Then pages began to fall out it seemed. A ways ahead, in later acts, I would notice page numbers becoming inconsecutive. Notations bespattered across treble clefs. Faded and unrecognizable. Otherwise befalling as unfinished and abandoned.

Life mirrors art but art rescinds with inertia. Imaginant journeys we practice more often die on the page. Fiction is just that and we cannot depend on its smoke to light our way. Nor can the splashes of conceptions expressed by assimilated presumptions take the place of actual experience and personal enlightenment. A painting of a rose does not a rose make.

So now, I can tell a story about love. Now the melody would touch and be touched. Only the quill slips through my fingers.
And as I watch the feather gently flutter my inadequacies down the wind, I am reminded of a simple notion I once read forever.
I believe it was by one Alison Willcocks that suggested that "If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it is yours. If it doesn't, it never was."  Well I found that such was my crux of the drama that never was and it was from there that I spun fiction and coveted such liberties until love's secret paradox finally corrected my grammar.

So now, I know that which I missed as I fabricated heartstrings while tricking the ear. Unraveling the sapient beauty within the inflorescence from whence it came.

But if we set free our love, what if it actually does come back? What do we do with it if we now own it?
To Alison's simple coin, I might add this:

"If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it is yours. If it doesn't, it never was - and maybe so, but if indeed it does come back to you then it is you that is by god set free."

I am free. By god, I am free...

However, this is but a simple lesson in creative writing so... ya :)