In this section, we detail poignant stories of love which has been lost.

With the exception of two women, all of my expressions of romantic love have been for naught. Kindness , courteousness, little gifts and listening were not enough. Even the two women who returned my love eventually said, "I don't love you anymore...my feelings have changed.

One was very special. She threw me a birthday party, we drank from the same glass, we kissed to the top of the World Trade Center, and we shared similar interests and dreams.

When I was growing up in the public schools, I did not experience the ability to participate in normal school days functions. I was not athletic. I was teased. I was abused by peers. Before graduating I had suffered a concussion, had a lighted cigarette stuck in my pocket, and had been pushed down a flight of stairs. Besides being not athletic, I suffered from asthma, bronchitis, allergies and was a Christian when it was "cool."

When I met my now ex-fiance, we had an instant attraction. We both liked the arts and theatre. We were both creative. We were both looking for someone with whom to share our love. Although we were both non-traditional college students, she lived in a dorm. In any event, during that year, we went to football games, to the homecoming dance and cruise, to retreats at other colleges, and to New York City with members of her class to watch Broadway shows. The dorm living required some adjustment. We were both "night people." I can remember more than once hauling her word processor down to the lobby so we could work into the wee hours.

I also remember her first English 101 essay assignment. We were spontaneously invited to an Italian restaurant with the former newspaper fine arts editor and the then current programmer for the artists series. After dining, the programmer wanted to raid the home of her soon to be ex husband, who himself was an English professor. We provided "support" while she retrieved personal belongings. And, of course, the start of that English essay was postponed. One the way back a smirk appeared on my face. What if the ex-husband had returned and the elderly fine arts editor had developed chest pains?

I could see us all at the hospital. My fiance would have been so upset over the condition of the elderly woman, she could not have concentrated on the essay. That would have left all of us --- either professonal writers, English teachers and journalists --- to attempt completing an English 101 essay that was not too brilliant for a freshman class. Fortunately, none of those disasters happened. But the thought of professional writers arguing about faking a freshman essay sounds amusing.

For various reasons left unsaid for privacy sake, my fiance split. My friends stabbed me in the back; relatives interfered on both sides of the fence. Now, I'm again doomed to limp, walk and run this planet with a giant hole in my heart. Stitched together from numerous braks, it continues thumping as I wistfully gaze upon still another couple strolling hand in hand looking lovingly in each others eyes. They smile and laugh in the brisk fall air probably contemplating a winter in front of a roaring fire.

Unfortunately, for me, I will not have a sweetheart. Only memories ease my pain. Still, I often pray in between pleas to St. Jude for help, that I just do not awake. Actually, I'm not that "picky" --- its just that I don't want to raise someone elses children and I think anyone who would be compatible with me would want to spend much time enjoying cultural activities, not changing diapers.