I listen closely to the evening and search for the feeling in her heart. She looks back into my eyes and tries to do likewise.
“It seems you’ve changed a lot.” she fills the depth of silence.
“The beating of your heart and the batting of your eyelids tells me who I am.” I refuse to give in.
Chances are that she’d try to fill the depths some more, perhaps more desperately than before, and I might end up being buried alone under the weight of her sanity. I am not afraid of death. That’s not completely true. I am afraid of my friendship with death at times, but I ignore him in the hope for the life that her soft breathing promises.
“Always the poet.” She smiles, a tinge of red betraying her heart.
“Always, with you, my poetry.” I whisper as she steals away the rest of my fear with a widening smile. She looks away in a vain attempt to find a rope to save herself from the quicksand of our touch. I smile as she gives up, pleased with the lack of a way out she looks back at my naked soul. Some pain spills out.
“Your poetry is not one. You bear many faces. The honesty in your eyes has nothing to do with what you say. You love none but beauty herself. Beauty is a cruel Goddess. She abandons people when they most need her.”
“If beauty is my only love, you must be her. I have many faces and all of them cannot but look at you right now. I am helpless. Do not be cruel, when I need you the most. Do not be creul to me right now, my poetry.”
“I have many vices, but cruelty is not one of them. I have scars that you cannot see. When you call me a diety, it pleases me a lot, but before I give in so easily, like I have done before, I must look at myself not from the enchanted eyes of a lover, but from the cold stony eyes of death. Only death is honest. I do not see a Goddess, my dear poet, I only see a mortal, who’ll fade away into oblivion, and as she does, all poetry will be taken away from her, as will all beauty.”
“I do not know the death that you speak of so ernestly. Death is my friend and I bathe often in his river of forgetting. Death heals my scars. Death helps me live. Death is honest, I agree, my poetry, and his honesty is in forgetting. Come let’s step naked into this river and wash away all our scars. Let’s be fearlessly in love. let’s be completely in love. Let’s be forgetful in love.”
She complies. I introduce my poetry to death. We step into his river and as we laugh without a care, I can see clearly that poetry is beauty.