Saturday, May 31, 2008
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He loved her for her novelty; for her tear-blind eyes, her porcelaine doll fragility. The concave curve of the small of her back, where spine arched to meet fleshy curves. The sound of a whimper on her lips; the India Ink of her eyes, eyelashes, hair. Photographic details, snapshots. He loved her for art's sake, for fiction. For love itself. Love and wonder and the savagery of her innocence.
He loved her in bits and pieces; all he could ever claim of her were parts. Try as they might, he could never have had all of her. The laws of physics kept her from him, kept him from her. Distance and circumstance and manic desperation lead them to the conclusion that devotion -- true devotion -- was beyond them.
So, he loved her but momentarily.
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Comments (7)
Love seems like such a lonely and hard place.
@GunStarHero1988 - Ah, it's temporality is the hardest part, I'd say.
true love isnt temporary. it waxes and wanes, but doesnt dissolve. not true love.
all feelings, love especially, are temporal and ephemeral. time is an illusion made just for such things... or maybe made by them
I just love to read something that I can picture in detail.
Well done.
sounds like lust
Just beautiful. I love the way you put opposites together into the same description. I think Sherwood Anderson did that too. It gives the piece and the characters life, because it's so unexpected. Great writing.