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o + --*-- * . ' . * . o , . o
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- ·:· * . * . * o
love, a curious thing. it purrs in the beginning, nudging you, the voice of your demon. sometimes, it gets fed what it wants. other times, it lies awake, hungry.
nevertheless, as time goes on, it morphs and evolves. it grows and matures. as the dust settles, it, too, settles into something. perhaps unto something. something dormant, waiting for the trigger. something smoldering.
it wraps itself around whom it revolves about. assuring and surrounding so fittingly around the shape of the subject. the subjects. it becomes something no longer as active. no longer as punctuated by desire and truth and the pumping of the heart. and yet, as time ticks on it leaves oneself with a vague indication of the hole it once filled. a longing memory of what was. what could never be.
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