Sunday, 31 December 2017

The beauty of love

From where does it spring, this warmth we call love?

I do not wish it to be born of the heart, however romantic it seems to tie the emotion to life, knowing that with each beat both the excitation and the awareness required to feel it near their end.

Such a feeling as this needs a source of more permanence.

It must not spring from the eyes, despite the beauty observed in the idolatry of our loved ones.

My love, I feel, must surely spring from a deeper root.

Not my stomach, for it will not sustain me, nor my mind, for it is illogical.

My love comes from my feet. These under-appreciated limbs which bear us on our way, step by step, day by day, their structure enduring beyond death, albeit the journey they undertook is long since forsaken.

My feet will guide me towards my destination – a destination chosen by my eyes setting upon you.

My feet will bear me through pain and trauma, blisters and bunions, although my heart may crumple under the strain.

My feet demand much of me, and of my love, but continue in their journey regardless.

My feet are not beautiful, or perfect. They are not out of reach. They are not a prize. And this too is true of my love.

My feet may be dressed in beautiful garments, contorted to appear more elegant than they are, and this I do to my love also. Not out of shame or inadequacy, but for the joy of showing it off in the most elaborate form possible, that it reflects how worthy I think you are of such glory.

This is the source of my love.

It is simple, plain and strong.

It is yours to do with as you wish.