A new smell brings Adrian to lower his head, and recede out of his stupefaction to the sight of the door, where through its ajar position, Catherine has poked in her head.
A smile warms her face to the cheekbones, and forces the tension inside of Adrian to walk itself out of another door, that is the door of his heart; and out of the heart, it goes, to commit suicide out of the window. What would tension look like as a pile of innards upon the walkway? Perhaps it would look like nothing, because no one would miss it.
She hands him her stare, in which he takes with his own.
All tears, in love, are the tokens for appreciation, because we only cry when we wish someone to see, to notice, those waters. Unleashed from a frail heart, are such tears, raining from Adrian’s eyes like dew that trails itself along a blade of grass.
He runs to her.
Adrian runs to Catherine, for an embrace, and a kiss upon her mouth so that he may taste her tongue.
He wants to taste her tongue, taste her words as though they are literally upon its flesh.
It is a woman’s tongue that is the color of scarlet, a pinkish hue too easy to notice, to be ever blind to; and, as love floats along the air like the pollen in the month of May, we breathe it, without noticing.
When men see a woman, hear her speech, they ought to go into a state of admiration for her voice, so much that he should weep before its sound.
As she may weep, so should a man weep.
“I have become an alcoholic, after I made her cry,” says the feeling man, who committed the gravest error. The feeling man, as any feeling man, will drink sorrow away, because he failed to drink a woman’s tears.
She places hand against hand, to stroke the flesh of the overturned palm of this man, this Adrian, who plays a delicate tune aloud, in a stream. A wonderful and melodious tune, that drives up his emotion to the clouds, to where God could say, “You are playing well,” and Adrian keeps playing.
Though, without opening his eyes, he says to her, “You are cold. Have you been outside for long?”
She counters his words with a false smile, signalling the truth, that she had been outside for long. What she does next is speak a few words to him, and they are words that could create disagreement from Adrian, were they not uttered in their gentle tone. For she says, “My dear, I was not alone outside, for I had you in my thoughts. You warmed me, as you always did.”
Still, does he not open his eyes, and he says to her, “You were beautiful, once, and perhaps you still are; though, my eyes are too far closed to see beyond the lids that have shut my vision. I have been focused on this piece for nearly half an hour. Should I open them to see you?”
“You may open them. But, when you do, I may be in the next room, still pretending to look for you,” and he felt her smile, felt its warmth, upon when she spoke these words.
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
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
All this relates to Adrian, by what has made his heart flow between joy and sorrow, when one beautiful woman enters into the chamber.