Of Stars, Love and Promises.

 

Two bodies sprawled on the grass, one soul by night. Wriggling wet earth with their toes. Unscrupulous enough to invade the defenseless worm’s habitat. And they call themselves lovers. Such blasphemy!
But they’re watching the sky. And thats evidence enough for insanity. Insanity which for the lesser world translates to love.
Star gazing is their little secret. Watching them twinkle yet never really move. She is convinced they’ll move for her someday, like a million little fire flies. And when they do, He will pinch them off the big dark blanket and weave them in her hair. So she grows them longer still. Thats a lot of stars albeit the possibilities.

Her eyes hurt from all this dreaming and no living. From carrying the burden of a vast black emptiness for which she is to blame and a girl who has stars braided in her hair.
She must dream on.
She will be his only fire. The lighthouse guiding him ashore were he to ever forget the way home after a long walk for more stars to catch. He’ll narrate tweaked tales of his adventures on the skyship and she’ll never fail to act surprised, never letting slip that he told the same story the week before the last.

When they will put their heads on the grass again some night, there will be no dancing fireflies and no dreams of a girl who wove stars in her long hair weighing down her pretty lashes. And what else will cease to be?
That eagerness to wait for the night sky, wriggling wet earth with their toes impatiently. That hope of a distinctive star winking at them and orchestrating their private and exclusive show, her favorite dance on his favorite music.
And yes, Promises. There wont be promises he hasn’t kept and the glow in her smile that says he will.
The waiting, the hope, the dreams, the daring, the love, the lies, the blasphemies.
All lost in a single stroke of contentment.
Stagnation is morbid, if only they knew.

That is how love is. It wraps you in a warm cozy blanket and then it puts you in a very hot place. You, inevitably, throw the blanket over. Your foresight blinded by the illusion, The Oz of Love.
And then, like it always does, bitter winter sets in. Harsh and unforgiving. An indiscriminate killer. Why could it spare those enveloped in a sea of fake promises and comforting illusions? Not after they’ve rid themselves of the blanket of individuality, of freedom, of self. It is a test you can not choose to skip. Its not a ladder to something higher, its the journey of your desire and you can not miss this destination.
You can hold eachother close with the blush on her cheek and the fire in his bellly for warmth. Or you can be lost forever. Alone in an abmysal hollow. With no courage to break the ice.
And If the former it came to, when in some world that once was yours a bird sings, you’ll know its time.. for new promises to be written on the grass with the sratching of your feet.
Promises..
Of a home on some high cloud, perhaps.

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Amiable Animosity.

Like the tip of a needle stained in blood houses a million units of life. Each unit so stable- unmoving – but so alive. Always in motion. Yet never letting surface the struggle of the positive and the negative within. Only peaceful coexistence for one to see. The opposites, the anti-forces forever trapped in such proximity. Yet never questioning their fate. Ceaselessly working to resort calm and order in all they are part of- The flowers your admirer sent you and the tears you wasted when young, first love walked out and left you a broken heart.
Born out of nothing and vanishing into thin air. Dying without as much as a sigh. They are everything and almost nothing in the same string of reason. They are the way she smells and the skin draped on her body like the most elegant, custom- made pashmina, priceless. They are the words you etch and the many questions unasked, just left unattended – floating in a myriad of other unfulfilled desires. They are the promises you made and the burning scars it stamped on the canvas of her memory. They are the unsettling eyes that haunt your every dream and the ring you slid on her finger – fake, like your many promises- not kept.

Sometimes, I wish we were the cell. You, the matter. I, the anti force. So close that we could be one. But far enough to not repel the other away. Opposites that do not attract. We would work together to never let our struggle be seen. Resolving all conflict without a ripple of disorder on the surface. Our bonds made of thoughts or just thin air. We’ll be in everything and in nothing. Uncared for, like the backbone of life. Taking each other for granted.

But were we to separate, if ever such occasion came..we will melt to nothing but set on fire the entire meaningless universe with us. Destroying, the way we created. Life, this is. Death, this is.