/unedited & incomplete/
Where does love go? After it has been birthed, bottled, savoured & lost?
After it has blossomed, flourished, and wilted, been replaced by other, sturdier emotions - loss, and bitterness, and sorrow, and pain - where does love go then?
The love that was wrapped in plants and planners, terrariums and little quivering fish, dreams of white picket fences, two kids and a dog called Forthwith, a honey vanilla scent spanning centuries and universes, where does it go when the fish and the dog and the children and the fence and the scent have all gone up in smoke?
Is it a flame gone out, a thing irreversibly transmuted, dust gone back to dust? Does it wait on the banks hoping to creep back in or is it fled forever, fearful of the flames of persecution, of accusation, of common sense and logic?
When the hurly burly’s done, and the battle’s lost and won, where will the love have gone then?
~Sam
