I’m trying to write a story
But how do you write about love when it is gone?
You could read endlessly of love lost.
Of a lover who left nothing but dreams that now feel like nightmares and words that chant in ones head, pleading to be spilled out onto paper.
But that love is not gone. In fact it seems the cruel fate of those who loved to continue to do so once their ‘love’ is gone.
But when she’s no longer there. All that is left is that love, seeping beneath the bedroom door like smoke from a fire you can’t put out.
And when she is gone it is so much easier to grasp that love, free from the human flesh that once housed it, free from the lips that once held it in.
It’s easy to write about love when she’s gone.
It’s impossible to write about love when the fire has burnt your fucking house down and you’ve built yourself a new one and you stare at the space where your new house stands and you know that there was something else there once but you can no longer see it.
That’s when you know it’s gone.
