In honour of Valentine's Day

The lights turned blue. The night went red. Afternoon delight.

She let out a sigh and fell, cradled, against his chest. The void had opened, the world had fallen through. Only her body remained. And his.

In the stillness – oblivion. My body is divested of its will, its tension, its desires, she thinks. My body rests, she feels. I am at peace. He brings me peace. No – it is Love that brings me peace.

She lifts her head and whispers into his ear, You make me feel so peaceful. He actually titters. Your closeness, she says, your giving. This is love. This peace. This revelation. She pledges herself forever.

Forever never lasts.

The third eye of hindsight caresses the jagged edge of her naivety. Peace, she spits. Grotesque and primitive, two bodies tyrannised by one instinct. Mired deep in the carnal pathways of evolution or sin or destiny, it drives the heaving of desperate bodies, the heated beast is in pursuit and they run and gasp for it to end. The chase peaks, the prey is caught, torn apart, devoured.

Peace. What the body in the red night knows is not peace. We throw our flesh to the beast, we leave our chains and meet the jaws of lust, we claw the boundaries of control and release, then we lie back and are emptied, this satiation is not peace. It is the ravished body, lying prostrate in ungodly defeat, whose perverse ownership, for a few darkly lucid seconds, cannot be denied. It is the paralysis of the broken, who, in the unguarded moment of release, embraces the dirty truths of her origins.

_________________________

Exerpted off an anonymous woman.

To Love: the icon of higher happier things.