What is the taste of despair, or for that matter, what is the smell of bliss? Is there comfort at all in the dark embrace of melancholy, or in some rare instances, what is the texture of freedom? What is the tone of a voice spoken in love, and how sharp are the words that cut with surgical precision?
This I know: one balmy afternoon, the smell of roses just about to die perfumed the air, someone touched my cheeks with dry, weak hands and whispered words I shall never forget, words that were both sweet and terrible, loving and yet full of pain. And now I know that sometimes the tastes, textures, aromas, and even sights blend into a heady concoction that sweeps you off your feet, and yet kisses you with a tremendous burden that life as you know it is forever changed, that the enchantment of the moment can both be astonishingly beautiful, and yet be full of elegant despair. Of this I am certain, moments can be full of contradictions, and paradoxes, tender yet violent, soft yet unyielding, filled with hapless joy, but copious tears may spring unrelentingly.
This I know: one balmy afternoon, the smell of roses just about to die perfumed the air, someone touched my cheeks with dry, weak hands and whispered words I shall never forget, words that were both sweet and terrible, loving and yet full of pain. And now I know that sometimes the tastes, textures, aromas, and even sights blend into a heady concoction that sweeps you off your feet, and yet kisses you with a tremendous burden that life as you know it is forever changed, that the enchantment of the moment can both be astonishingly beautiful, and yet be full of elegant despair. Of this I am certain, moments can be full of contradictions, and paradoxes, tender yet violent, soft yet unyielding, filled with hapless joy, but copious tears may spring unrelentingly.
Comments