Tales of love are spun like all others in life, especially those born true. With one mask of love comes the other, and that other is loss. We’re told love is forged pure by golden dusks, slow evening strolls, bodies tangled like spewing tendrils, hearts flowing free through sober-midnight-streets, smoking candles and unmade beds and tablecloth stained and rowboat asleep on still smoky lake, and on and on and on - ‘til death never part. But loss strides waist deep through the sticky waters of love to drag you down to its depths, to drown in a bleeding pit of writhing snakes spawned from the ruins of memory.
For where love comes tender, loss cries fierce. Where love brings warmth, loss strikes cold. When love coos gently, loss chews cruel - teeth stained a filthy white. Yet a couple they must come, hand-in-hand, inseparable beyond the bloating of our sun and goodbye we go, graves and all, a handful of dust scattered over the universe half-empty. For love is loss and loss is I and I am you and you are me, wherever you may be.