Present strength, as one would love. Present weakness, as one would be loved.
Oh, love, how it causes dividing currents to be conjoined, unified, under the waking hours of the rising sun. Its burning forehead, so much our fever to a dying night in our sweats, where we said that tomorrow could not come quick enough to see the sweet one we adore. We burned with the flame of yearning. We now sting in our want to kiss what we pray to never leave.
It is that love is a smelter, as we melt our emotions through them, forging them in the heat to make something of opposite means. Rawer, not ever newer, because nothing more can be raw of this blanketing emotion, divine in its radiance. We are quilted by it, drawing itself over our misery in the bleakest night, where we will feel its comfort.
When we shake, do we feel love, or horror? We feel fear, though we may feel the excitement and the thrill that corresponds with love.
Though, what can be lost of it? The heart that collapses can be related to the well receiving a dryness alike a drought, as it could be related, too, to the forge that has not been fanned for its continuing flames. Dryness. That is the word needed for our coming description, to a man’s dead plenty.
He has been loving what wilted. It is for him to use the last thorn he perceived to still be sharp enough to cut, for pain to be his utmost delusion. To raise what can no longer be raised, upon his shoulders of self-defeat.