Trembling, scarred hands reach out to a passing stranger, then quickly withdraw, the fear of pain checking them in mid air.
Desperate eyes plead silently for a friendly glance and fear hopes no one will notice.
I hear myself speak bold words and my heart turns away at her friendly response.
Would fate deal another painful stroke to my battered ego, or is this the answer to my heart’s prayer?
I feel old, long dead emotions stir within and hope surges with new life.
Her face glows with the need for a new companion and I wonder if it is a reflection of my own emanations.
Cruel seems life to those seeking love and yet, love is the reward of a determined heart.
Endless is desire, relentless is the need, but honesty is a taskmaster whose demands are impossible to fulfill.
I have walked the darkened, lonely corridors of deep depression; must I share that agony with another?
Possibly, her journey through life was more difficult than my own. Is pain lessened if borne by two souls or is it multiplied by two?
I offer a half-hearted ear and thankfully she is hesitant to pour out the bitterness dammed up in her throat by regret.
Her tongue is not sharp and vindictive, but forgiving. She bears some portion of guilt and tears pool up in the corners of her eyes and then vanish away, hidden from the world like most of her painful memories.
The flush of embarrassment is on her cheeks but I dash in and rescue her pride with a secret admittance of some long ago hurt and see her cringe at the familiar realization of a forgotten truth.
Pain is not prejudiced in its affliction; it touches the naked nerve endings of any caring heart, tearing away at the foundations of life, caring not if life’s dreams are thrown to the ground and scattered about in one’s frenzied dash to escape their tormentor.
The smoke of ruin has stung the eyes which now gaze across a tiny table and each one dares to believe they see a flicker of hope in the others.
Words, like fencing foils, parry and thrust at a safe distance, not to inflict a lethal lunge but to search out sensitivity and areas where wounds are not yet healed.
A soothing ointment of caring concern is applied by a verbal swab and each, over time, will nurse the other to emotional recovery.
One does not eagerly reengage the mortal enemy of every heart, but watch and sense for the response of welcome, alert for an ambush from the cover of false affection.
Two broken hearts, brought together by unseen forces, can sometimes become fused into one. Scar tissue, stronger than life’s formidable foes, withstand any onslaught they may face together until true love erases every trace of what once was.
Love does not proclaim its existence; it simply IS, WAS and always WILL BE.
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Clarence Bowles
All books. All the Time. Established 2005