Short stories: Pain from love
“THE FATHOM OF LOVE”
CHAPTER ONE
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 of those who try to train others to love. They are as ludicrous as a saint teaching a DUI school’s ethics to a child and embedding new freedom from the taste of wine into their mind with their first drink.
As gentle as it may seem, it stabs like a cold blade through an already open wound, leaving a trace of a scar. I reminisce on the thought 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! Extremely pathetic this may be to the one whose hair was fresh, but it is a new release of life for the person who has awakened from a coma. I can feel again!
How mischievous is the snitch that is love, which finds out one has tampered the evidence and found the innocent 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 relationships 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
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Tags: Arid Desert, Foe, Leaving A Trace, Melancholy, Torment