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In each encounter, we yearn for the happiness that is so often craved in human relationships. In the midst of passion, there is a longing for certainty, not for ourselves but rather for what a relationship withholds and means. We make love but are not in love, though enthused by the notion of love itself. We sit in the dissonance of romance that is tattered, bruised and tapered to the point that gnaws away at its true definition. We seek the fulfilment in each other that we have long wandered for. Semblance is what we find, rather tender, though together.
For now, the loveless exchanges will suffice for they provide brief solace for us. We often share elements of euphoria for which we cling on to in the hope of spontaneous transformation. Through climax we suffocate our cognitive functioning into deceit, and at least for a fleeting moment you are my hyacinth girl. The potential allure of us, two becoming one, capable of sharing intimate moments in good faith is difficult to ignore. And in that, we no longer know self and our situation. We disappear in to a deeper kind, where we are true lovers. Senses are thrown to the upper echelons of all that is perceptible, driving us toward an idea of existence that is nothing but. Only death can put a stop to this so called happiness.
We soon return, and with that we are reminded that we are not lovers but rather two who share the desire to be in love. The infatuation that originally brought us together is now fractured, and merely rocketing away. We lie there, in a circumference formulated by the torn fragments of our souls that we wholeheartedly bore to each other. Though time’s wingèd chariot is bereft of focus, we are dead lovers who lie in wait.
