The Weight of Erôs

To this devotion, I am a servant. In even the most stoic of men; the fine print of transcripts and scriptures of rational thinking – a world is occurring before these eyes that dwell on the faint mascara trails. Her blackened eyelids, morning eyes that vibrate at the thought of a dawn of another day. She does not know that the vibration of my eyes are given light by the contextual life that we find ourselves in. It’s past midnight, we walk the streets as guards. Yet the only thing we ever guard is our hearts – if we are wise. We stop before a house that should be standing, alone, far away in the deep greenery of village seclusion. A misfit amongst the surrounding hotels and bars. There is a tree and a faint street light, its rays omitted from the nucleus of the tree’s platform. Underneath the summer leaves, the intimate progression of palms around waists and the weight of Erôs. Lips caressing lips. Now I know why we never kiss with our eyes open. We do not feel with open eyes. We feel with blind, sacred passion. I read what the contemporaries write, about the conceptions of what it means to have chemistry personified. They exclude the fauvism of human art. Of modern, soulful intimacy. The edges are blunt. We cannot narrow such a thing down to a few words. As though Plato never spoke of his theories on desire and emotion, how this fire that runs through us is like a disease.  In his words; every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.  Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.

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