Love is that emotion that threads the universe to the stars.
He walks with the gait of someone who comprehends something that another wouldn’t. Love that is left not felt, is what he gathers in arms so heavy. Truly the treasured emotion he finds to be comforting, can always ease the darkness in anyone, as he would believe it. “My love walks. She talks. She finds comfort in the birds and the surrounding warm air.”
It is what he says upon a day so arid in the month of June. His broken self is apparent, because before him, lays a dying woman. She says aloud to him, noting that he said she could speak, “Will you ever love, again?”
He bows his head in hands. A gesture made, as though to shield himself from a nothing. To shield himself from words he would call nothing, because they mean nothing. He says to her, “How could I ever love, again, when I still love you?”
The world shifts between their eyes, as though no stars ever existed in their gaze. As though the threads were cut for but a moment, because the world between them shuddered. An entire landscape, moved by her words. Next his own came across and let loose the aftershock, erupting silver from both their sights. Silver, the mineral in representation of the moon, leaks from the eyes in the form of tears. We weep at nighttime, do we not? We could be sorrowful for the moon, and scorned by the sun.
A hot placement is now upon this man, whose name is Mason Dexter, while the question is still apparent. He received her question with his own, placing them both in confusion.
The sort of love in this time does not start fires. It starts hurricanes. Mason breathes in the fumes of a hospital, aromatic in death. Aromatic in pestilence, in dysfunction, in simple and easily remedied sickness, is all what Mason breathes. It has encompassed the scent of her, once aromatic in spring, in life, in renewal. It is June, yet Autumn has crossed between them.