A vision, . . . .it must be, . . . what else?
An imagining, a poet’s desire, sculpted by the sound of the waves, the breeze and the setting sunlight. I pause, . . . do I dare move forward, surely something this beautiful has darkness within, handing it out as fate to anything that dares to try and capture it. Darkness, the darkness of the blind, the darkness that punishes those who believe they could stare straight into the light.
Spare me, I make no such claim. I am too wise to love something as hollow as beauty, I must love the wise, the loving, the pure. I must be better. Haunt the hollow creatures foolish enough to try and feed off you, all I am is a man who could not look away.
The bond though has already been made, the moth will flap its wings, it is how it must be. I resign myself to my fate and sit beside, wanting to reach out and confirm that she is real, that I am real. She looks away, with eyes that defy you to find anything in them except beauty. I try because I must, because I can. I try and I find hurt, I find pain, I find that the flame is flickering under the beating wings.
There is a word I must say here, I know it. A word that will heal it all, a word that will enable me too see past the beauty, a word that will let me see though I am blind, a word that waves sculpted ages ago, a word the Gods made as powerful as they were themselves, a word I learnt the first time I saw here, a word I knew a minute ago. I panic, I forget, its too late.
“Almost,” she says. She smiles as she says it . . . . . then she says no more. It was almost love and it was almost lived. Heaven and hell, an inch between two lips, it’s a big word. It has exhausted her, she can take no more. She gets up to walk away, to find someone who doesn’t burn her back. She leans closer for the final touch and I remember my word.
“Love,” I whisper. . .
I don’t smile. . . .
She holds me closer, lets me smell her hair for one last time. There is a tear but I don’t know who it belongs to. If only I had remembered it a minute before the word would have been powerful enough to hold her forever. I know she wants to look back, I know she will not.
The flame has won and the moth in his defeat must now try and live. The real world honks its horns and begs and prods. I think again of the word and I realize what it is, . . . .
Just a vision. An imagining, a poet’s desire, too pure to really exist.
The sun sets, there will be no visions in the darkness.
"Love", I whisper it again, I smile this time.
"Almost" says the wind.