THE MATRIX OF LOVE
by j brooke
We all die;
no one gets out alive.
is all that is between life and death; we must exist, live, love, hate, be in
love and suffer when ecstasy dies, usually within the arms of a callous lover,
who might have forgotten the color of her eyes, the aroma of our breaths, the
feeling of the liquid melodic memory, most amazing feeling of sex, when she was
desired, begged for, a single touch, a single kiss, as air, as oxygen to his
by particle beam, we lose souls that in a moment of time, our exact opposites
simply could not live without, dying as if they were a millimeter away from our
hearts; our bodies mixed as twin ice crystals of Saturn’s rings, tangled within
the solar winds, which they blasted apart in the end, because he failed to
remember that her love for him was a gift, not an annuity that he was entitled
broken hearts must fill the hollow globe of a planet evolving from perfection
to imperfection, before love flows, and drowns, and dies, in a sea of
remorseful pain? Must the grief and loss of love forever clutch their furtive
fingers around our throats as an executioner’s song, a cruel network of copper
wires and fiber optics entrapping us in a death knell puzzle stitched to our memories
of love found, love lost, forever a reminder of our pure sorrows? Must each
waking moment weigh as an accumulative reminder that every living creature
found within the maze, their search for dignity within passionate screams, failed
as we sought the most elusive question always, and seemingly forever, at the
very tips of our begging souls and that is: how could he ever have forgotten
the taste of a female’s lips?
oceans be satiated with our salt tears and pleas for forgiveness, as storms thunder
inside our sobs, and the light of lightning that shrieks across our hearts be
simply enough to cripple us, we humans that gaze upon an uncertain wind as it
breathes life into the very core of our dreams, and deeds, and passions, and
the crushing weights of our tragic pasts?
single gasp we take as we die be enough ransom to pay the godless toll for our
sins, our hideous acts we were no more aware of enacting as the ocean waves
that bring us such joy might have known, wreaking havoc to a child's sand
drawing, set alone and along some long-lost beach of our distant romances,
endings and memories?
stitched into the core of rock, and captured within raindrops and encapsulated
between earth and sky, simple sunsets and silent moon deaths that bring us
matters of life and death, and love locked within jails of coal. For man loves
her, as she adores him, and it is along the midnight hour, perfumed lips and
silken skin, eyes wide, breathing intense, her hair like a golden silk sail
trailing in the night wind, pressed against cotton sheets, purring, dreaming,
heated and scalded of body heat; his skin, sweat, turmoil and want, that love
begins, and then ignites.
so intense, how could it ever change, swelling the pungent southern rain.
Orchids weeping scents of tears and smiles they only ever understand; a story
promised forever of never an end, forever and never anything but the touch of
two lovers trapped within a vortex of immobilizing and carnal sin, until time
warped, and he never remembered something so striking, so mesmerizing,
something so special as her smile ever again; gathering his clothes as a thief
of night, she sleeps, as the cat burglar clutching her love, her hope, her soul,
slithers out the door in the morning hours.
wakes, touches the vacant valley of the empty sheets, he will be gone, and of
course none of this will surprise her at all, for after all, he is a breed
apart, he is a man.
J brooke is a writer
with over 100 credits, and never lists
them. It’s simple for j, for it’s never what you have already written, but what
you are going to write next. Contact info: firstname.lastname@example.org
Zero lives in an underground bunker somewhere in
Colorado or someplace else with Promise, a rescue Australian Shepherd with an
appetite for corn-on-the-cob and peanut butter.