Tag: Romance Fiction

Short Prose – 450 Words – “A Man’s Love for a Woman” – Romance – 12/3/2020

We cannot look at love as anything other than a mode of stillness. Captivation.

Here, a woman named Lisa breathes, brought down upon a loveseat from her husband, Jonathan, and his hands. He has kissed her forehead, remaining damp to his lips from exertion. A wandering smile, darts from East to West across his mouth, when his gaze steps into her own.

Love does not forget, as it never aims to release, completely. Upon the loveseat, she rests, though in Jonathan’s arms, she remains.

It is a still voyage, where his heart has been dumped overboard as the anchor, from a ship made of gold. Love is that. A stillness. An ocean that remains calm, though by us, can make waves rise towards Heaven encased in a storm. A stillness, though never something to force. It is our emotions that imperfect us, though it is love that makes us realize them in fullness. Love. That which encompasses all emotion, is love, are the words of binding. Of rings that hold the same gold as that ship, so encompassing. The steadiness remains of it, as a surrounding ornament.

It is love that we are blind to, while engrossed in fear. Our realization for who we love, comes upon when we are trapped by them, embraced in arms that do not release, completely.

Beautiful, though abominable, are we, without love. Though, with it, we are understood of each imperfection, disguised over as we did with scars.

Love cannot manipulate, as when Jonathan can see Lisa, has knowledge that he cannot move her limbs of his own accord. When it is that a person can pray for love to move the dead, it proves always fruitless. Love cannot manipulate.

Love cannot raise form, though spirit. Through Jonathan, to his aching wife, Lisa, there is a captured memory of her, always entangled in his mind. Without a need to unbind her from his own cranium, he lives with the thought. For in love, there is no desire for a release, for a complete one. Even of her, whose own limbs have become disarranged by illness, love yet rests.

He loves her. Jonathan loves his wife, and from a simple glance to his face, can be understood of his loyalty to her. Of vows, of a loving heart, of a part to him that will not ever quit, he remains. Beauty for him, of a woman who has not gained a year upon her features, to his eyes, keeps the smile glowing upon these lips. Of his lips, smiling as they are at this moment, is one that cannot melt from neither sigh of grief, nor exhalation of exhaustion. He smiles, because he loves.

Short Prose – 350 Words – “For No One Else” – Romance – 11/11/2020

How upon a river, when that stream comes as tears, you’d ever be swept aside? My hands are disfigured, so unlike yours that bare themselves to the sunlit moon. Mine do tremble, beneath my face that has been smeared. Smeared by ash, while your hands are not with scars, though with the purity I’ve kept.

Can I love until the bleeding stops? For no one else, and for everything more, have I always loved you. My pain is an empire, of its own. My love is a woe, of its own. Though, to your safety, have I’ve continually kept myself beaten down.

Like one hollow demon, devoid of his healing, there is nothing to raise me. I accept that, when the stars do not look like fruit to my eyes. For your delicate consumption, you can pick one to hold, when I lift your heavenly form.

For not my pain to heal, though for yours to be sealed, can I always remain this way. Just a droplet from a raging pour of tears, who never mattered to himself. It is just, for this is the way. This is the way the stars align. Your face, the skies, among the hanging boughs of the birches, as each thing burns a vision for my stare. We are not clothed by our remorse to the past, though by our hopes for the future.

Sing to me, dear one, that you know my pain never mattered. Live for me, when you stand above, knowing that my tears will be lost. I have always lived at your side, growing love with thorns that scrape my flesh. Let us live with the sickness of words, among the proof of action. My pain, is my demonic self. For my anger, I do become something else. Though, for no one else more, can I become something born into the arms of a woman. As you, the love I have kept upon the curves of the Earth, seeing each thing that passes among everything that arrives.

Will you ever love with contempt, to me? I have been terrible, upon a time, though only to never see the demonic appearance, of me. I reject healing, for yours.