autobiography: chapter eight

Love is a strange thing. Love is based on two things, lust being the first. I suppose it would be called the first “ust” of love. Without lust, the love would never start. Lust can be a single encounter, tangled arms and legs contorting themselves into two people pulsing to tribal beats, making melodious moans like a cow in heat. This is a quick flash of heat, instantly igniting the fires of love, forcing the loins to burn with intolerable heat. Lust can also be a cherubic, smiling face or a pleasant conversation—a simple, solitary, flicker of a candle casting odd shadows under a new moon, barely igniting the flame.

When we first met, it was that face that caused the first heat. It was a dry heat, forced to burn by late nights and exciting topics, talked about over half a dose of exhaustion. The first fire never ceased to be; however, the flames did disappear, leaving only a scantly glowing ember, fueled by forgotten friends.

This last encounter was again, of the more mellow type. A simple night visit soon turning into something much more involved, a heated bit of lips vibrating with such a melodious frequency that all around stopped what they were doing just to listen to this beautiful melody. Oh, how it fluttered in the breeze like a falling autumn leaf tossed about by the breath of a grasshopper’s wings. The ember quickly caught sight of this oxygen and burst into full bloom—hues of red and yellow danced about carelessly. It was a magical sight to behold, but was utterly counterfeit. This single instance could not set a twig alight, let alone the dark forest of my blackened heart. There must be something more.

Just lust—it could not be the fate of this flame. What could possibly catch the spark, tending to its needs like a mother cradling her babe? Please, oh please, let there be a caring soul to guide this single flicker in space to my heart, so it may once again burn brightly!