The loudest dummies of them all would scream from void while she did fall.
She’s not in love!
This was their charge—those drunken whores who’d grown quite large. Their therapist had surely lent that ‘greatest wisdom’ they had sent. There was a way of broken thought that taught the people what their not. Truest love was smithed to last—those words reserved for one fair class; they’d think its value only real when forging fires sealed the deal.
Those precious loves which came from work—they’d been the same as her own murk. Her first great love had been a friend for who she’d chosen heart to mend. They’d built together something grand, it took much time, they’d made their stand. Only when this came to burn despite the trying—how she yearned—it taught of love as more and less—these partnerships could be distress. Tenets of a love most built would be the lie their horrors spilt. No matter how she struck and toiled those smithing tools had become soiled.
Love itself was plain and clean; a feeling which would make heart gleam.
