sorcery of a gaze

“Do you see her there, and the other, the woman next to her?”

“Yes, they’re very beautiful.”

“You mustn’t know a woman like that, no matter how beautiful. It doesn’t matter how blue her eyes are, or how brown and soft. God, look at her– It doesn’t matter if she smiles at you or finds some kindness to share on a gray-November day. It doesn’t matter if you can hear the sweet seduction of her loneliness echoing in your mind’s memories, or if the air is charged with the blue lightning of her presence. She’ll break you, without malice, and you’ll never be the same.”

“Why?”

“She’s taken, and she’s given– to another, and the two things are not the same, but still, she will never be yours. You’ll open your hand where once you’d gently held hers and find nothing but your own aching skin, cool with the perfume-breeze of her departure, hollow with her absence. You’ll see the pulsing blue blood in the veins of your wrist and and think that you are alive but feel that you’ve passed and you’ll know in that moment that heaven was a lie. No, you mustn’t know a woman like that. She’ll ruin you, she’ll kill you slowly, and worse.. she’ll make you believe in hope. Aye, she’ll love you, but she’ll never be yours. In the end, only the wavy memory of the dream will remain.”

“But she looks sad, and pretty.”

“Yes. She does. Quite. Stay away, I tell you. Son, there is a vacancy in all of us which will never be filled, a void swirling with the tortured howls of promises, tossed about in the maelstrom. Listen– you can hear the calls of sirens from where they stand, hand on round hip, and if you dare too near, if you stay within the sorcery of a gaze, the void will consume you. There will be a hole in your soul as deep as that in hers, and you’ll know it only because you’re in it, and once you’re in it, there’s no getting out; you’ll tell yourself each day– that you’re still alive, but you’ll know the end of what you’d once been began the first time you looked into her eyes.”

5 Replies to “sorcery of a gaze”

  1. Oh , how I hope you didn’t tell him that.; that this is merely beautifully written art. Imagine never having felt the sting of love, then emptiness wouldn’t exist because the hollow stands numb, never feeling, without knowledge that emotion even exists. Better to have loved and lost then never have felt love at all. Because I have loved, I now breathe. And even in his absence, I feel lucky to have known him.

    Like

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