quiet rivers

Love was a carpet of scenes rolling out and away past a long plane-flight, a tapestry of memories, held desperately against the certainty of unraveling distance, pulled past and too fast across both his inner vision and physical sight. Love was a month in the embrace of his native country, perfumed with suddenly-familiar smells that mocked the bland neatness of his - this place of ironic return - adopted land.

He missed her with a depth that shocked his senses. He missed the warmth of the hand holding the soap that caressed his skin; a fire that had traced his nakedness with shy possessiveness. He missed the fierce hug that held a dismissive passion that shook his soul past the little deaths that had seemed cataclysmic earlier until brushed, oh so easily, away. He missed Neruda and his passion; wished it so badly to replace the paleness of his own.

Love was a hurt that leapt and spanned oceans, a regret that defined the function of his lungs with one vast gasp, an elephantine longing that both mocked and promised a future.

Love was the shape of lips fleetingly glued against his own; the slight touch a startling realization of a particular shape and a remarkable softness that nestled against his own with perfect symmetry. Love was a country left so achingly unexplored, for a land far larger and less hungrier than his own.

Love was leaving. Love was returning. Love was a bolt of laughter, threaded with pearled tears; a heart etched into bleeding stone. Love was you and me; worlds apart and alone, bridged by hopes and dreams, flaring even in the light of mocking stars.

Love was tears steaming the screen; carving into the dust of intentions.

Love was words made real.

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