A few flickers develop, the image appears: a woman screaming a breathless scream, crying grey paint masses of tears.
He stands helplessly in front of her (not even 20 feet away) offering a hand. Neither of them move. Nothing separates them. Except for the dust.
The histories between their stories get lost in time and memory. Nothing physical lies between the two. Only the metaphysical which turns out to be just as parting as the sun and moon. Or mountains with rainwater, mossy high and porous desert. Or armies of enemies and allies of angels. Or barbed wire fences and the nations’ on each side.
No, it is none of those things that separated them. What got between them was a moment that went wrong. A time that was less than flashes of white.
Now she will never be forgiven. She screams eternal grabbing at her words, and setting them free again:
I am sorry.
He holds his hand out but never reaches out. He could have reached out. Or taken a step. To move closer.
But instead he extends a feigned acceptance.
She disappears, scream still lingering.
You can hear her in any pure white song you associate with a past love.
Being human is rotten tears that roll down past rounded, thin checks. If Luck is close by, it will be cloaked in human skin who catches the tears or the words needed to be spoken. Proclaimed or professed, there is no other form of expression.
If it is true what they say, that our eyes are window’s to the soul.
Then my soul is many emotions. it contains multitudes of beauties and many atrocities. In the mornings, my soul is barely lifeless. Very still. When around good friends, my soul flutters. Fast and slow at once. At night, my soul is calm. Thoughtful or playful, sometimes pitiful. And when I think of you my soul is exactly how it should be. Eternal.
The person I love will have a soul too big to be contained to their body. So big that by the simple act (but not simple, you make it an art) of smiling, it will reach out and shake strangers’ hands. It will violently grab the collar of Sad and tell it “you do not belong here,” set it down, and make it laugh. It will keep me motivated throughout mundane, routine daze. It will caress my doubts, and sing them lullabies to sleep. It will contain yellows that even van Gogh couldn’t create.
It will be the reason I enjoy writing love poems again.
We are starved people. Starved. A word chosen carefully. A word that embodies what, who, and how we are. Let us start with the “what.” What are we? We, born from this universe, are made up of stardust. It is appropriate, then, that the first four letters of starved is “star.” Take note of it. Next, “who” are we? We are a population of starved elements. “How?” What is our function? Our function is to be starved. You chose what you are hungry for. Whether you are starving for love or for hate, what you seek you shall find. I warn you: You will never be satisfied. And you need to know that that is okay. The fact that you starve is beautiful, You Star. Your destiny is to want. Not because we are selfish, but because the trajectory of our lives is meant to live outside complacent boundaries. Never settle. Live extravagantly. Live as you were made to—the universe surrounds you and waits patiently for you now.