Love in His Language, Not Mine | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

 Loving a Man from Another Time

And the Heart of a Woman Learning to Understand Him

He was born when I Love Lucy was a household staple. If we’re following the stars—a man of balance, thoughtfulness, and charm. Belonging to the tribe of Venus, the Goddess of Love.  But this isn’t about horoscopes.
It’s about time—his time, the one he was shaped by, and the one I was born into decades later.

There’s a two-decade age difference between us.

He’s respected for his clarity, calmness, and command.  A man who always has somewhere to be—some board meeting, committee task, client call. His calendar is a fortress, and I often feel like I’m pacing outside, waiting for the gates to open.

He doesn’t text all day.
He doesn’t do long emotional check-ins or midday I miss you messages.

Sometimes, days go by without a word.

And when they do, I feel ashamed of myself—ashamed that my mind wanders to dark places, that I imagine him with someone else, that I let the silence plant seeds of doubt.

But I also know…
This isn’t about another woman.
It’s about a man who was raised in a time when attention looked different. Where love wasn’t performed through constant contact, but through provision, presence, and showing up when it mattered most.

He is old school.
And I am learning what that means.

Because when we’re together—my God, when we’re together—it’s real. It’s grounding.
His voice is deep and sure.
His touch speaks before his mouth does.
He listens when I talk.
He makes me laugh with his dry wit and quiet confidence.
He takes me in like he’s studying me—no rush, no distractions.

It’s hard to explain what it feels like to be around him.
It’s not flashy. It’s not performative.
It’s solid.

And sometimes, I don’t even know what I’ve been missing until I’m back in his presence—and I feel whole again.

Still…
I miss him in the spaces between.
And I wrestle with that.

Am I expecting him to be someone he isn’t?
Or am I asking for something he never learned how to give?

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Reflection

Sometimes I wonder if he knows the ache I carry in the quiet.
If he senses how my body leans toward my phone, hoping for a message that says,
"You’re on my mind."

But maybe his love speaks a different language.
One without constant updates or the need to fill every silence.

Men of his era weren’t encouraged to feel deeply—they were expected to perform, protect, provide and stay composed. 

Performing love, not declaring it.

And maybe that’s what I’m learning to accept.
That his rhythm is not my rhythm—but that doesn’t make it wrong.

Love, in any form, requires translation.
And if I want this to work, I need to stop reading the silence as rejection—
and start hearing it as the space where his love lives.

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The Intimacy We Share

When we’re alone…
He touches me like a man who has nothing to prove—but everything to give.
Deliberate. Present. No rush.

He studies my body with the patience of a man who doesn’t just want to have me, but to know me.
Every curve.
Every breath.

And in those moments, age disappears.

When he’s inside me, I don’t feel younger.
I don’t feel older.
I just feel his—claimed, seen, completely undone.
Time lets go of us.
There’s no age, no doubt, no distance.
Just his breath, his body, his intention—

and my full, open yes.

Time folds.

Doubt fades.
My body speaks its own truth—open, willing, adored.

He makes me feel like I’m not just desired, but chosen.

And in that space…
I stop wondering.