Love was older that the cobble stones paved in that city. He felt that by endlessly looking at her walking delicately as if she was kissing the cold surface of each old stone. Showing off her finer side of her soul through her coquette body movement was satisfyingly enjoyable. For a moment he lost his sense of direction. Every minute added to his inability to detect what was more seducing than her skin, her hair, her aura, whatever that was; it was pure, with no desire to deceive. He felt no desire to add anything, suddenly he loved the feeling. It was the most impossible love. The one that lands somewhere in the world where only poets were allowed. Happiness was his that moment.
He was a victim of sadden feelings. Something that he couldn’t ignore, but had no answers. Something rare. Was love equally felt from all? That was a fare question, he thought. He couldn’t say, although he would have desired to be special. But “special” came with a price that at times was just innocently damaging.
He met her only once. Confused by his heart irregularity, his watch stopped threatened by his pulse. So strong that he debated to choose between fear and love, both equally present. He chose the last one, even though he knew that made him vulnerable. Satisfied with all of what needed to know about her. Absolutely nothing. The seduction of ignorance was almost orgasmic. Love making became the most desired curse. Her breathing was inscribed on him. He possessed her knowing she was the sweet opium. There was no rationality in his mind. His human sentiment suddenly had no measuring tool. The erotic of his feelings could not be satisfied with a literary word. His passion traveled with the lust to nowhere, drunk to the infinite dream land. Time that night lost its meaning, while was suddenly replaced by fantasy.
Unwillingly he was the subject of his own trial. Freeing himself was a harder task than he thought. Free himself from what? No one taught him how to love, even worst; he didn’t know how to unlove? Such question could have been irrational, but after all, life did not care for human rationale. In selfishness, suffering was the sincerest language of the soul. He felt exhausted by the whispers of his own instinct.
She came in his thoughts for the rest of his loving years. It coexisted only with his mind, often to be repeated, which in his opinion, that was even crueler. Unknowingly he accepted the bitter sweetness, feeding his permanent memory. Such love was for eternity, left to its pure meaning, untouched by time. She moved on, and he did too, but only with his body. After all, life took over, as anything else, in a selfish power. Although he admitted to himself occasionally that his mind had a journey of its own. Once upon a time he concurred love and for the first time he didn’t know what to do with it. Since then, every angel’s day he closed his eyes and there he saw her.