a spark-
it begins with this. A quiet flame, that simple whisper of desire. There are boundaries; always a moment in which these lines become distinctive, separating features become clearer, individual. When friendship transforms itself into lust, and lust somehow finds its way to affection, and this affection eventually evolves into love.
Love, however, remains ambiguous. It exists without definition, far beyond the limits of right and wrong of good and bad- it continues on as imperfect as it was born.
Love can be created, love can be destroyed.
Love is the phone call when most needed, love is the guitar string that strums, plucks, picks, forms the sounds that make up songs, timeless devotions to those lives who shape our own. It is that instinct you cannot shake, the knocking on the door you simply can't ignore.
It is holding your hand.
It is the final sweet dreams slurred at the twilight,
thos morning eyes that sing out,
"I'm awake-
I'm alive."
(I wrote this while I was high. It may not actually be how I see love at all, but last night, it made perfect sense.)
