Romance, for me, is a living language.
It’s not just affection—it’s literature.
Spoken almost daily.
Dramatic? Certainly.
It’s love that arrives through inboxes, crosses time zones, drips across windshields, and flirts shamelessly from traffic lights.
My romance is intentional—and that intentionality is understood.
It’s choosing each other again and again,
not out of habit, but devotion.
It’s like sacred theater…
Where I still blush at the same lines I’ve read a hundred times.
I romance like he’s the last page in my favorite novel.
He responds with a full-blown symphony—
the kind that makes me need a fan, a fainting couch, and possibly a warning label.
Because my kind of romance is loud.
Loud enough to make my heart pound like a woodpecker on a weary tree.
Unrelenting.
Unapologetic.
Loud enough to scandalize the garden squirrels.
This is romance—
With poetry in my pocket, mischief in my smile,
and a heart that never forgets who it beats for.
Leave a comment