On Love

I wonder was the first prose for love. Even if the oldest known sample of the word is not on love the theme is so rampant in subsequent works surely the case can be made there is a most ancient amorous piece to be found. In truth we can never know for certain. But we know why. Every creature old enough to love has pined for it before they achieved it. And save for those few lucky enough to pass before their first deprivation, all know its loss. Some losses pull more than others.

She was crazy as those cold autumn winds, her sentiments like swirling leaves. Reason was the stone wall they spun into and up against but they never fell back to ground. Yes, she was ill but I’m not well myself and I suppose the madness between us played a part in both the draw and the break. Still, I miss her and that’s what it’s all about isn’t it? A lover can beat us and burn us but when it’s over we don’t feel the stinging. We just remember our face in their hair or their back to our stomach or their smile before our eyes. We breathe the absence of their breath.

It’s a new season and the perspective granted by time and distance gives as much umbrage and ache as comfort. I see her transgressions more clearly. What was once a suspicion is now a very operational theory and waits for confirmation. If it comes, it too will bring equal parts suffering and solace. Most of all I wonder. We do that don’t we? We wonder what they’re doing now.

We see them curled on the couch or with their hair running across a pillow. They stand in jeans before the dresser or a business suit on a city sidewalk. Smiling, crying, laughing, sneering, roaring.

I do not wonder was the first prose for love.