Need-love says of a woman "I cannot live without her"; Gift-love longs to give her happiness, comfort, protection - if possible, wealth; Appreciative love gazes and holds its breath and is silent, rejoices that such a wonder should exist even if not for him, will not be wholly dejected by losing her, would rather have it so than never to have seen her at all.
The mention of her name or the sound of her voice always brings my affections hopelessly high, only to realize that itís a dream Iíve already awoken from -- a dream from weeks ago. I can no longer even afford the energy of hope that comes in fanciful sleep, because somehow even whatever authors my dreams refuses to ignore this pitiful objectivity: the reality of dead anticipation. Some people can merely expect to slip for a scant few hours to their dreams to escape a concrete sorrow; my only refuge is silent rest.
White knuckles for half a year take time to unwind from contortion, no matter how violently the grip was shaken. Mind and heart that were so long fashioned to accept a new piece, and ready to share the burden of blood and love, now know the meticulous preparation and tragic unfulfillment of the puzzle with a single misplaced piece. They know that the last piece is effectively the whole. The other four thousand are just an expensive, fitted nothing. The hole is small, but large enough to swallow and consume the time taken to form it.
|Leave a Comment:|