The Sound of Love
Her sultry tone devoured at my ego, clawed at my patience and diminished my already sullen sense of self like
a pack of hyenas slowly and methodically move in for the kill; every move is choreographed. Every move
practiced and tried and tried and practiced. She goes for the jugular, I thought, as my blank computer screen
became blank eyes that penetrated like lightning, yet colder than ice. The “out of sight, out of mind” mentality
that plagued the past like a veil and a black hood obscured the truth to a reality fit for Picasso, and yet we
traipsed through friendship like we were both a-singin’ in the rain, with red boots and a smile.
The fog has lifted, but the weather is not clear. Black and gray dominate a lime-splashed sky filled with ideas of
jealousy and brief glimpses of hatred. Yet it is a silent violence, unique to love. A slow, pious pain that envelops
even the sauciest of men. Even the wittiest and most intellectual of men. Even the strongest of men. I run on a
AA of hope; the secluded chance that I weathered the storm, holding dear to the sound of love.
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