Oh, love; without the work required, would make it mere dust.
Beauty is the flesh, the molded clay, and the truth that is continually spun into a different shape. Whoever is the political leader of the day, becomes society’s sculptor, and the sculptor of every piece of flesh.
A neck must turn a head upwards.
A face must see a God, when looking upwards in that direction towards a light.
Oh, science; it holds fields, and only fields, of such named studies, where the researchers will only face their eyes upon the ground. When one peers ahead, one sees the future. When one peers at their feet, they do feel miserable by seeing the past. History is not merely recorded, but also dug up, explored and discovered.
Love has two hands, and they both tremble in the fear and worries of a past.
A man now explores a woman, in what we see before us. A man of ragged appearance, with death on the edges to his fingertips; he explores with a shovel; no, not a shovel, but a dagger that is shaped smallest it could ever be, in possibility. No one had shaped its smallness but the frail mind of this withered man. He is a rapist. His mind is terrible, while his instincts are ever-so worse the cause for destruction. Death is his music; and where he makes marks, they are not stayed with the feet upon a woman’s ground.
He moves as the boat that rocks atop the waves.
He runs his face over her fearful eyes and runs his mouth over her quivering lips.
He moves his hands at her hips, to turn such round curves into jagged edges, so they no longer appear as the Earth with its same curvature.
Love; and why do we speak of love, through such a scene?
It is due to one detail.
A woman raped, is the woman removed of her modesty, of her warmth, and one can guess she’d feel the same “loss” as when she is removed of love. A lover, that is, to be removed from her life, makes the woman unprotected.
And what had been her protector, this woman named Lucia who now lays on her back in some dusty back-alley, besides what is now that same word? Fragments. Torn flesh, is the ragged flesh, is the bleeding wound, the same wound from everything lost. Of flesh, of virginity, of any mark that touches something made to be warm, from protection. Clothing would protect from the cold. An embrace would protect from the coldness of loneliness.
And now, there are fragments.