A lonely flower, content.
It’s all temporary, my dearest.
This remorseless cannon detonating constantly inside your Beautiful being is temporary.
This cruel war you didn’t wish waged; the silent blasts only you and God can hear, are all temporary.
It feels as though your once-colourful world is being stripped of its crayons, hope crippled, one explosion at a time.
It feels as though the bombardment is ripping you apart in Slow-Motion.
It feels as though even our Mother is angry; nature seems livid with earth’s all–conquering, all–materialistic animal.
But remember, my dearest: it’s all temporary.
This arid year.
This soulless virus.
It feels as though hurt has turned savage–creature, omnipresent. In your teeth. Your femur. In your skull. Your naval hair. In your exhales.
It feels as though hurt is released from its sordid habitat without notice, assigned to maul your delicate heart without reason.
It feels as though hurt could be accessed anywhere from your Beautiful being, Live and On Demand.
I promise you, it’s all temporary.
Temporary like the unhurt droplet of sweat, set free from a lover’s breast.
Temporary like her shallow I love you whispers.
Temporary like the scent of cinnamon–and–cardamom, bathing in a glass of black tea. The tea you made her as a chivalrous response to the oppression of winter.
Temporary like the first bite of a fresh, sour cherry.
Temporary like an empty park bench pining for intoxicated lovers to return.
You will yet see beauty with every blink.
You will rediscover the Lilliputian joys in life.
You will sparkle-clean the detritus choking your Beautiful being.
For you are human.
An image of God who is feeling the unjust burden of the gnawing sound of loneliness.
My dearest. My Beautiful fellow human. It’s all temporary.
I promise that you will grace the universe with an infectious smile once again.