She has controlled her beauty with evenness. Symmetry within every detail, and symmetry, especially among her smile. I have asked myself a question, if love would be the thing to hold her hand, or perhaps I have, as a flawed man, all the while.
I speak these words to resonate myself with guilt. It is an emotion without kindness, without reprieve, without the placement of forgiveness rarely given by another. I could weep. I could very well weep. Though, will a hand ever come to me? To pry my shoulder with even the firmest and boldest touch, would suffice. I ask questions, to state whether or not her beauty has also ever sufficed itself, not in terms of attraction, though to know if it has been warm enough. To know, if she has met comfort with her own attraction to it. To know, if she has met love with her own attraction to it.
Love blesses me, has made my heart famous, as though each string connected is one from a violin, and my heart is now the composer, with a thunderous command bellowing from each thump of its beat.
I am inward, and outward, with my eyes closed. I see the void in myself, and the vision of a woman, of whom I love, in reality.
He is inward, and he is outward, a man named Adrian, with barely a surname to be worth mentioning. Strings of his heart, the idlest of ones, are plucked, alike the petals of a tulip, making sensations aloud that reverberate among his form. Those idle strings, are plucked, are like petals, are have a scent, an aroma, much alike the strands to a woman’s hair. His surname, however, should be mentioned, likening itself to the reader’s satisfaction: it is Gautier.
He plays a piano before himself, drawing tunes upon the empty air, making smiles out of his own mouth at occasional moments. Love draws out of his own breath, in fewest words, “What is taking her so long to arrive?”
He is a Frenchman, with a face so rugged, and eyes without color for they are shielded by their lids.
He sees only darkness.
A piano before him, words upon the thoughts of love, and an unmentioned detail is of him swaying his head side to side, as though listening attentively to each thudded key against the wood.
Loneliness is to a man, as shocking as it is to a man, as bewildering as it is to a man, unlike how it is for a woman, which is a normal occurrence. A woman’s heart is a blank slate, before love dots it with the darkest of color. Darkest of brown, or deepest black, is poured upon a woman’s white heart, as her innocence is erased, and womanhood is embraced.
Ah, so man is to be lonely only for a singular reason, when loss weighs heavily upon his upper brows. Enough to close the eyes of this man, so that all he sees is the darkness, and the light that beams in through the open window before him.
He sees nothing, and we can describe nothing of his surroundings. How would it, dear reader, that we are able to describe what our character, Adrian, is unable to witness, for himself? Surely, it is impossible. It would not make sense to do it.
Love is a place of music, whether there be sighs in repetition, or faces marred by tears; we have love, we have its holy emotion in two places, as the sun or the rain. Sun, for joy. And the rain, for grief. Happiness and turmoil are each seeped into love’s domain, and as the rain weighs us, drenches us, as our clothes droop us, we are dried by the sun. We are loved by the sun, in our happiness, and we welcome its warmth. And, we are made miserable by the rain, whenever the rain moves us into depression.
All this relates to Adrian, by what has made his heart flow between joy and sorrow, when one beautiful woman enters into the chamber.
