She stands so Hellish. She would move so Hellish. Lisa whites out her flame, her spark for a dream, before a sleep ever began. She stands in a fire, and walks in the inferno, for she likes the burn to touch her. She looks at herself around the flame’s tendrils, like its form can be identical to her hopeless flesh, soon to be discarded like any blaze. As the flame, to rise, then fall, for nothing aims to appease what she truly wants: certitude.
In that white-out of her own emotion, she is weathering herself. For that emptiness, she shares herself, her body. She shares her clothes, disallows herself to pick them up from her feet.
She walks on, in it, leaving vastly-hued sparks to be gathered like dust in her arms. Like whatever flame existed is merely momentary, as any flicker of some apparent light, before signalling its ever-more evident end. Lisa is the woman, like any woman, desiring reassurance to what she does not comprehend. Be it that a woman might be connected to a child, in mind and in body, to be insatiably curious, tempted to explore, in sudden need to find out. It is that Lisa needs a dosage of that certainty.
She dots herself on Joel’s physical grasp, and to what she’s unable to tell of him, remains in his mind, clogged by the grayest clouds. She stands always below him, to view those clouds in his eyes, while he never offers room for her to dance. He never offers her room to move, in his clasp.
She can feel, like him, to be loved, like he does. Though, passion does not soothe, as it merely burns the already-opened flesh. She can ask the hours that float by, “Am I still here, remaining without an answer from him?”
It is that love will be mistaken by so many to be the same as passion, when roaring tears are always falling in the way of physical absence.
Through passion, tears are shed for the lacking physical hand. Yet, how many tears are shed for the lacking heart, of something more ethereal in its essence?
Lisa chooses her surroundings to come embrace her, in her despair, in her forever pangs of loneliness. Passion excites. For passion causes her to tremble under the doubting joy. Doubting, yet proving of little fruit, in those stolen moments not ever eternal. Passion is here a flame that is whitened, by a lacking substance. A lacking of itself, of substance, makes passion always the emptiness.
Know the couple who have made love, only for one to depart the other, after morning strikes? Does depression strike, too, when the one leaves for the other, in comprehension of their finished night in deep caress? That is a loss to a physical presence, surging loneliness as a rising tide.
We are lonely of the heart, not of the form, when we have lost what the form will collapse, without.