Un Amor Dinámico

How is it that a dynamic, passionate love turns into a curse? What can cause such a love to dissolve into wavy streams of reality, truth and lie, myth and prophetic testament; nothing true, nothing false. Leadless, lifeless, left to my own devices which have always been destructive. I never loved myself until I met you. Not just that, but I loved who I was with you. I was passionate, awake, alive, constantly on my toes, ready for emotional, intellectual battle and it was fantastic. You made me bleed and it was a dark crimson red that spoke passion and life.

Now, drained as if a million leaches covered my body. I feel ashen, lifeless, hollowed out like a dugout canoe, left to float along the river of life without the slightest diversion in course. I yearn to feel as I did before and that longing for what exists only in fragmentary memory will stay with me. I know that now. It can hide itself like a dormant disease; new skin, fresh cells will cover it up, until one day, a slight poke or prod awakens it and it grows with every beat. Slowly, the cancerous cell swells. Each memory provoking it until it is met with the resistance of reality, then it sinks back, again covered by new growth, new experiences.

But it’s there, and worse than that, I don’t consider it a disease, but in a way, one of the most beautiful pains a person can feel. The pain of separation; no, of becoming one and then forcefully separated, that pain is cutting, violent, grinding, and finally laced with a sweet glaze of melancholy that makes one lick at the wounds, sucking every last bit of dark crimson from that hole, savoring it for its existence, its plain existence.