prompt three: they only speak the language of love (march 13, 2010)

Eyelashes-long, fluttery flirtatious eyelashes have always been the death of reason. The powder keg that precipitated the first world war in Matilda’s heart with more impact than any Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s black rose or squirrel, to the magnitude of hyperbole the death of a thousand Tybalts deep. One wink is enough to cause her to thrust all her eggs into that tested and failed basket, no matter how many omelettes were quoted to Lenin or Lennon. A curious and electrifying finger tip traced along her lips fuels images of an unrealistic and idealistic future before she even names its source. Who cares, at this moment, she’s empowered herself to call it whatever she wants. Warm breath between her earlobe and neck is just as good as an eternal promise of fidelity more clearly than never heard. Pressed against a chest, the beating heart beneath is proof of life-this is what it’s all about. They say that 85% of human communication is non-verbal, but damn do we do a number on that remaining 15%.The language of love, or imagination, the educated guess or the innocence of longing and hoping for the best-that’s the universal language of love-don’t go looking for a flowery esperanto. But how much is misconstrued in touch or betrayed in looks? Misinformed by hearts that listen to those faulty mediums we know as ears to relay messages that we’ve already formatted in lives past? Can we trust the language of love as fallacy? Are we all then just Matildas doomed to lose our hearts in the wishes blown away with eyelashes, longing?

slight editing, but only to end….the luxuries of going back years later with no time constraints….


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