Essays: Reality
THE FATHOM OF LOVE
True love, to be put down into a poem on paper or into a documentary is applauded by the writer’s thoughts through the ink of their pen. Can one rate love and its silent intentions upon the heart? It is like a soft shadow in an arid desert; flat, fatigued, yet under the place of purpose, longed for and needed by the maker it is trailing. What is that which is left? It is so basic, yet complex and I ask myself, what is next?
Casting a line at love would be like a compliment to a person sitting at a bar wearing a shirt out of season while drinking a warm beer. I laugh thinking those who try to train to love are as ludicrous as a saint teaching a DUI school’s ethics to a child and embedding freedom from the taste of wine into their mind.
As gentle as it may seem, it stabs like a cold blade through an already open wound, leaving a trace of a scar AND reminiscing on thoughts of the same pain at the simple sight of passing by a piercing object. Can a breath’s gasp caress the moment of torment and fear with words of expression of how love should be?
Yes, like a new hairstyle; fresh and teased and handled with care, to be approached by a thunderstorm two minutes post of finding you locked your keys in the car. The shop is NOW CLOSED!
How mischievous is the snitch that is love, which finds out one has tampered evidence and found as guilty as the culprit. The song of melancholy sung at a wedding or the song of joy at a funeral, ironic love may be. Lovewho can know her? Who can stand her? Who can establish her? Yet we all choose to seek her.
Has one who is tamed kissed a foe on the lips? A bewildered look from the eye of the blind and sweet music heard from the ear of the deaf, that is how deep and true love can be. Therefore, I ponder. If I cannot see beyond this thin membrane of pleasure, how can the thoughts of true intimacy in relationship exist?
Disturbances from the streetlight in a project building gaze into the eye of the sleeper. Unnecessary, no, for the light is for the safety of the old woman waiting for the bus. Can love have compassion on one and faults toward another? How you see love is how she sees you. Love as a streetlight, for some, can mimic a silent kiss of the moon’s light in the evening. Yet, it can be protection or may I say blinding.
You cannot dip and dab and change the taste of your milkshake. Greed causes love to lose her coolness. Wanting one, possessing the other, and lusting for what is untrue, diminishes love’s focus. Should she fight?
She brings out her soft words of encouragement and coos her lover with the taste of buttermilk, bread, and honey. Who can walk away from a filling with a smooth sweet taste? Can the belly be satisfied by the scent and aroma of a delicious morsel?
As you seek her, she runs away. She flaunts her dress and blows kisses from a distance. “No one will ever know me thoroughly. I AM THAT I AM.” Such as love, a piece is all the nature of man desire. Just a gulp of her sweet red wine or a smidgen of her fudge on my plate, maybe a scent of the perfume embedded in her soul would be enough.
She is the cure all, as spray starch onto a pair of washed and dried jeans, so straight and so right. As you see, love, true love, is good. Or is it lust?
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Tags: Leaving A Trace, Snitch, Soft Shadow, Thunderstorm, True Love