Love – I. Resonance

– And there’s an embrace, as if meaning were translated into simple action. An embrace, as if it could make amends for all wrongs perpetrated. A silly thought, but also a common one. So there’s the embrace and arms wrap themselves around the other. There’s a warmth and it can hide truth, it can hide clarity and pretend sincerity. A layering of kisses follows, one after the other, like pecks meant to undo the hurt that translates itself into the dried salt that remains after. The problem is, with each collision of lips, instead of peeling away the scar’s covered over in salt, they are sown deeper into the heart. Buried deeply, producing an opposite effect. The lips quiver, the salted ones, and begin to lose their form, as emotion becomes their pulse.
There’s the yearning, despite everything and inspite of all the thorns already buried. The need to pull in close to those very same lips that let out a warm breath, while molding words. Those same lips that excavate the flesh to attempt to bury truths that cannot be alleviated. It’s like addiction. Trust fades but the connection, the magnetism that draws two together, remains deep within. Deep below even the buried scars and the deep sewn salt.
She says she loves me, her breath measured. I look into her eyes. I look into her eyes in that lost way. There is no salvation for me. Not now. Not from this point. I have fallen over the edge and down I go. I look into her eyes, lost in her eyes, as she says she loves me. I know. My thoughts are clear. ‘She loves me, she thinks she loves me…she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know love, not personally, only in her own way.’ Then I shrink back. My shoulders, they fall a little, the frame inside them becoming slack. It doesn’t matter. At that point, with those words spoken in that manner, it doesn’t matter. I read them as a little empty. She doesn’t love me the way I understand. I hold back the sigh and breath her in. I do.
I love her. I love her the way I understand. I wonder often about this understanding, but I do love her. There’s a pastiche of thought and ideas sewn together into some quilt of consciousness. A warm fuzzy quilt, perhaps. My understanding. The way I understand. The stitches and the parchments fray a little at the seams where Proust pronounces the doom he decided for the world at the age of eight, where the words of Raymond Carver are embroidered and weaken the resolve of Lord Byron and St. John. Where do all the pieces fit? When they do, do they add up to much?
My arms tense as I hold her. This tensing is my expression. I can feel each pulse of her heart, feel the life blood in her veins. An overwhelming sensation washes over me, deleting the resonance of thought.