Love cannot die. It can be misplaced, set into the hands of the undeserving. It can be stalled, held against the obstacles of time and hatred. It is an eternal thought. An action pulsating through language and parchment. Sensed by those among us like rumors of tomorrow as it rests waiting to multiply.
Allow me to plant portraits in your mind. Angles with proper perspective and brush-stroked brilliance. Let it appreciate in value. Lock it into glass cases reflecting from your eyes. Blink. Savor the spectrum. Keep it as an inheritance. Unsold… Untouched… Eternal.
There’s a love I know. It was handed down to me from Elders and Shamans with ayahuasca breath. It wraps around my soul with tendrils dripping dewdrops upon a melancholy morn. I dare not write it. But if you allow me a moment to whisper to you it can be reproduced.
Love: four letters birthing infinite words.
My Grandmother was a Housekeeper… Hardened hands and feet christened in bleach and boiling water. Stooping and climbing, cleaning baubles she would never own. Her aching limbs soaked nightly in scripture and circadian affliction, silently teaching that I would always need ointment for bruises seen and unseen, an anxious ink pen eager to describe them,…
If all goes well I’ll be an Old Man some day. Submersed in molten Silver, forged in the crucible of time. My skin: a breathing labyrinth, creased and paper-like. Making origami rocking chairs with you at my side.
Vera was the darkest girl in town. She was reminded of this often. Usually in jest, or by some other poor child spouting hatred through frustration. Lottie, her Mother, was dark too, but unlike Vera she had a smooth tone to her skin. It was supple and burnished, like a rivulet of honey brown chocolate…
I wish they could have bottled Farewells. I would have offered them to you years ago, pleading and prostrated in the temple of our friendship. You could have sipped that instead. Tasted the bitter brew of Bereavement, and decided never to drink again.
Validate my signal. Acknowledge my binary code in a world of fleshly indifference. Like me. Share me. Babysit my ego in your conscience. Critique me Qualify my catalog with the hearts and upward thumbs of the body politic. Nurse me. Treat me in the hospice of opinion. As I find a way to assimilate.
“I did it!” Marvin said, an expectant smile on his face. “Did what?” Belinda mumbled, her eyes focused on the television. “I told her. I told her everything. About you, about us. We’re free now!” Belinda mutes the television, stares at the wall like it’s a crystal ball. “Oh… why’d you do that? I thought…