Where Does Love Go When It Dies?
where does love go when it dies? under a rock in a jealous lover’s garden? does love vanish in a shell’s ear or float in the nether reaches of interstellar space along with useless satellites? when love dies does it fizzle like a flat glass of seltzer or is it explosive as a rocket carrying armageddon on its shoulders? when love dies can it be brought to life by jesus’ touch or the gypsy in the window round the corner? does love die in a whimper suffocated by a pillow? the quaking roar of a heart pummeled by the sturm and drang of dissatisfaction pressing the peddle to the floor? does love die because of a suddenly unappetizing smell? a need to to move on to something other? a flash of enlightenment saying there’s nothing here to hold on to anymore? and when love dies does it get buried in a park where couples picnic throwing springtime around like an aphrodisiac? or does it humbly walk down a blind alley crying softly to itself? maybe love doesn’t die at all. maybe love’s merely awaiting a return to the senses. maybe love’s merely lucking under a hat or in a poem written on the bathroom wall or on a tree’s bark celebrating the initials of our names wrapped round by a funny slightly lumpy shaped heart.
By Bruce Weber