Is this what love is?

This is my attempt at writing something about love. I wrote it a couple of years ago and I know it is not the greatest but I like it. I have a soft spot for it. I think it is appropriate for this time of year. Enjoy.

Is this what love is?

I have never known it before. I am confused. They do say it causes confusion. Does that mean I love physics?

I do not know what to do, walking here, with you, in the summer sun. We don’t hold hands; we don’t need to. We talk, we smile and nothing else is needed. No one else exists but us, in this world of two, a perfect place.

The sun shines and everything is illuminated. It all gleams and glistens in the light. The reds are aflame with heat and intensity. The blues are cool and fresh. The immense pallet of the world is laid before us in its brilliance.

We walk to the art gallery to look at painting of and by people we do not know. There are none of you. Do they not know what art is? You with your ebony skin smooth and clean. The soft curls of your hair. The deep emotion in your wide beautiful eyes.

I do not want to look at soft round women lounging or men with strange coiffeurs playing in a park. You should be hung on the walls; framed to enclose your awe. People from the world around should flock here to see you.

We stroll in silence looking at all the pretty pictures, our footsteps echoing through the silent empty halls. We step in unison, turn and stop. You look at the painting absorbing all the greens, purples, and yellows. Your eyes move slowly across the surface and take in every swirl, dash, and zigzag. I look at you. My eyes meander across your surface taking in every line and every curve.

Is this what love is?

I have never known it before. I am confused. They do say it causes confusion. Does that mean I love economics?

I do not know what to do, lying here, with you, in the cool night. You are asleep. Your eyes are closed and you look at peace. Do you dream of me?

Do we walk thorough a field with slow steady steps? The grass lush and green, the small pink petals of the cherry blossoms flutter to the ground around us. Do we hold hands?

The spot light of the full moon shines on us as we lay here. It gives everything a silver patina. Through the window I see the world beyond. Even in the night it zooms and buzzes but we are still and calm.

I feel the velvety fuzz of the upholstery that surrounds us and I feel as I am afloat on a cloud. I touch all the surfaces that surround us. All of them covered in the same soft fur. We are not just on the cloud but encompassed by it; cool, fresh, and free.

You awake from my movements. Your hand glides across my cheek. Your touch is tender and soothing. I turn and look at you. Your eyes are filled with sleep covered in a watery haze. A broad smile smoothes out across your face. You kiss me, sweet and delicate. You stretch across me. Your body is warm and comforting. You blanket me in you.

Is this what love is?

I have never known it before. I am confused. They do say it causes confusion. Does that mean I love accounting?

My heart is a flutter as you sit across from me. The room is dim and cool filled with bored youth. They all seem vacant and lost in this cinderblock cell. But you are aglow. An aura surrounds you bringing light to the room. No one else seems to see it but me.

I sit ignoring the teacher, like the rest of the class, speaking of war and hate. But I have a good reason. I cannot let those horrible things invade me fore I am only filled with, what I hope, is love.

I create an equation to solve all the problems in the world. I doodle in my book your name + my name = heart. It is simple, I know, but it could work if everyone just tried.

My venture into solving world peace is interrupted. The bell has tolled and the stillness of the room is being trampled by the hurried exodus of our peers. The teacher shouts over the din something that no one hears.

We rise simultaneously. We are not in a rush as the others. They move past us like a river around our feet. We wade in this pond going no where fast.


Original Fiction

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