His kiss was lamenting, for Gustave knew that he was not to find that eternity at this moment. As his hands reached for Katharina’s bosom, he grabbed not a heart, but had only grazed the flesh. The skin that is so cold and white, and there had not been anything gained but a momentary feeling of euphoria. A stolen moment that would only fade into a place known as “perpetuality”. The loneliness had returned. It spread at his feet. It did not stop spreading until it was out of sight.
The presence of love, in that it remains eternal, makes it beautiful. The beauty of its pain is that it reveals what the rose represents. As lips are kissed of a woman, the man’s lips burn from the thorns that engirdle the rose. Poison envelops the tip of each thorn. Agony and fear are the bread of love, and its dipped wine is each drop from a poison’s taste.
Pain is inevitable for love. And love is inevitable for realization and growth. What we realize in that pain is that a bush of thorns is growing in our chest. A heart that is wrapped with thorns, and where is the love without the sin?