It’s an awful life cycle, Love,
Strangers meet, like the only two people waking a dark, hollow world. Exulting in companionship, soft laughter does it’s work to tie their bodies closer together in conspiratorial intent, forming a fledgling friendship that shimmers into faint illumination, growing brighter brighter.
That friendship which burns so brightly, white-hot in its seemingly limitless intensity bears forth a tiny seed of love and adoration, watered and tended with gentle fingers, hushed, rushed words, and a smile that always promises more.
Love grows, not in a potted plant, but wildly and with abandon – that which was once so carefully nurtured exploded and envelops the field and valleys of the mind and body, self-propagating endlessly in a bloom that scatters color as petals into the whirling winds.
But the shadows turn and grow, and endless flowering fields hide a heavy bed of thick, thorny weed that threatens to cut off the flowers at the root. Greedily, it drinks up the energy, withering beauty and rendering the fields a mottled medley of painful memories.
Of course, at first it seems salvageable – but flowers drink deeply to bloom so brightly, and the smiles that were once given so freely become rare and sapped of color. The warm touches become cold, and the days become gray, and there is a quiet desire to return to the past: to go back to those halcyon days of bright friendship.
But once turned back, the clock cannot move forward, and the day soon arrives where even friendship cools and we are left as we began – strangers on a barren field.
Discarded Recollections 