Couched in the language of the observer, hinted, eluded, words formed deliberately to be undecipherable, one hides and protects, locks it away, from prying eyes for sure, but even from oneself, ones doubts and anxieties that want to make it more immediate. An appetite that has not yet learnt patience.
The touch of lips, soft and inviting, a bed of feathers onto which the weary soul wants to forever rest. But then awareness, and for the first time and in an instant, unexpectedly, the soul forgets its weariness and observes minutely, acutely, the torment of the other weary soul and the peace and resting that emerges from the much too fleeting a touch.
Contrary to all sense of time, that instant of a moment becomes an eternity of peace. Unhurried and unhurrying, the tempers of lifetime of feeling bring to the moment an awakening of the heart, locked for so long in the senses, a love never ever imagined.
One can call it love can’t one.
After all one makes no bones – rather defines ones feelings as emerging from love of humanity, so it must be fine
There is also the revealing and reclaiming of the word from the dust and cobwebs of time and the narrow box in which the world places it setting it on a higher and higher pedestal as if to hide its expansiveness.
kalpaean 