Reflections.

Consider pearls. Lustrous nacreous coats patiently built up around  grains of irritant sand. Things of beauty created from something born as aggravation, much as the love that rose as I first looked down into your sand filled eyes. At the tears that they had caused. But as soon as I had found you, I had to leave, go away.

Then, in response to you, sent you pictures, words, melodies that so filled me with delight that I would have you see, read, or hear them, in the hope that you would delight, as had I. Musing, sharing with you those things that made me catch my breath at the resonance caused within. Longing for you to have been by my side, once again singing quietly to me that siren's song before I left.

Moments, that captured for all too brief a while, encompassed me in wonder: beheld, heard, seen. Encapsulated by me as best I could, to be held as nearly as possible in their perfection.  Sent and meant for you, to share with me in mutual wonder.

Endeavoring then; to create with words, woven strands of thought, that in some manner, some small way, might gently hold, pass on those precious fragile fragments that had so enchanted me, hoping they would you too and joining us more surely together.

Thoughts, that like soft intangible, invisible petals of a blood red rose, were cast into the wind to be carried to you: you who waited across the sea for the tales and thoughts that you had begged from me.

And that kind wind crossed the sea. Carried those thoughts: rose up that cliff upon which you live, to gently tug at that soft lobe of your ear as you waited there on the crest. Sighed softly, whispered to you low, then moved on rewarded by the brilliant smiles you gave. You would call me then, speaking across the miles. Make my heart swell by telling me of the joy that they had brought you.

But unconditional love is a rarity that lacks a sting. Love, so often many other things. Cruel, jealous, capricious, demanding. Sometimes... simply traded. A multiplicity of forms that, hidden within exquisite flowing enchantment, so often carries within a thorn that can,and did; so cruelly pierce an unsuspecting heart.

Which love ,'Nelvento'; woman in the wind who waits, was it then you so earnestly promised me? Who now Farfalla, that you wait for, who once waited so anxiously, so you said, for me?  It seems not I, even  after all those protestations declarations and declamations. Perhaps then, one yet to come. The one you fled from? Hated?... or so you told me then. And when he comes, as come he will. Will you tire of him again. Who can tell but you.

To love; be loved; is to the soul as soft rain to a thirsty plant. We bloom, raise our heads. Feel fulfilled.
To lose that love then, to die a little: droop; wish for a while to pass away. Then... slowly... in patient hope recover. Remember what was good, bright, in that fire burned so fiercely. Be grateful for that purity of emotion however brief. Give thanks... then move quietly on. Once more in hope, wait patiently for what, perhaps, might pass by again.

I, left with the quiet moonbeams, silence, and faint echoes of you in my mind, now once more a lost jigsaw puzzle piece, at each meaningful encounter, hopefully measuring myself against the other; waiting for the day when more parts touch than oft found gaps that hold me apart from pieces tried. Continuing to slowly drift across that sea of time that inexorably parts the being from moments experienced; separating reality from what gently morphs to memory, fading finally to misty oblivion.