Love is a Furious Fire

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Abstract

suffered the quiet shame, untold invasions into your dignity and self-respect. I have cut you into quarters with words, been caught up in the bumbling and stinking cruelties that I had no right to involve you in. Later, listening to the words that happen in your throat and moved by the tears forming in your eyes, say sorry.We have touched hearts across oceans, powered words across space, and held onto them through clouds and static storms as the electricity of our love broke sound barriers, loving each other at the speed of light.I learned the softness of your thigh, the crimson heat of your breasts, and came to understand my world is living under the crispness of your laughter, promising me summers full of flowers. Like Wordsworth, all the hills and daffodils, my future grows with you.<p id="61d

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0">This old man, with warts on his character, holding a whisky and sitting tangled in a chair, still with a thousand dreams, no longer sheds tears on summer nights. I am altogether a damn bunch of curiosities, pained by brutalities, children carried away, disdainful of graves, the blood of the innocent on my conscience.I’ve been made ready with love for one last voyage, endless, immense, farther still than midnights of truths, or summers fading stupidly slow, and we are all eight years of age again. Where love is untouched, and pure, and where dawns are jewels of lives once lived.But for a while longer, the thirst for you remains, and while filthy agonies come every day, your kisses swirl white on the air, coming down on my bleeding heart, reminding me that love is a furious fire.</article></body>

When we are heartbroken, bereft of ideas, feeling the insanity of a world gone to hell, be reminded that love wins, love is a furious fire.

Image. Furious Fire

I am sometimes the world’s greatest clown, juggling swords, walking tightropes, and falling out of cars because loving you is so much fun.

But sometimes, too, I’m the greatest fool, when I’ve missed something that I should not have, and you feel hurt. That’s when I’ll go to the piano and bring you back to me, to my side and we’ll be together, and I’ll say I was wrong and kiss you.

The sun has wept for us both. I have suffered the quiet shame, untold invasions into your dignity and self-respect. I have cut you into quarters with words, been caught up in the bumbling and stinking cruelties that I had no right to involve you in. Later, listening to the words that happen in your throat and moved by the tears forming in your eyes, say sorry.

We have touched hearts across oceans, powered words across space, and held onto them through clouds and static storms as the electricity of our love broke sound barriers, loving each other at the speed of light.

I learned the softness of your thigh, the crimson heat of your breasts, and came to understand my world is living under the crispness of your laughter, promising me summers full of flowers. Like Wordsworth, all the hills and daffodils, my future grows with you.

This old man, with warts on his character, holding a whisky and sitting tangled in a chair, still with a thousand dreams, no longer sheds tears on summer nights. I am altogether a damn bunch of curiosities, pained by brutalities, children carried away, disdainful of graves, the blood of the innocent on my conscience.

I’ve been made ready with love for one last voyage, endless, immense, farther still than midnights of truths, or summers fading stupidly slow, and we are all eight years of age again. Where love is untouched, and pure, and where dawns are jewels of lives once lived.

But for a while longer, the thirst for you remains, and while filthy agonies come every day, your kisses swirl white on the air, coming down on my bleeding heart, reminding me that love is a furious fire.