Random Nonsense

Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
-Kahlil Gibran (1883 - 1931)

She allowed her eyes to rest gently upon the page, the words serving as soft pillows for her gaze. The lines, they were written for her. No man alive could possibly know her situation, or understand her state. Each emotion was as unique as a cliche, rewritten for her own story in her own little way... And then the room stopped spinning.

She was different now, disillusioned. Surely, she wanted no more than to apply it to her own love life, her own personal story of separation and fear. Yet her circumstance, it seemed, was not deserving of such a dramatically truthful statement. Yes, he had been with her for miles, walking alongside as though his only destination was where she was headed. But she had tossed her heart like paper into his hat, and he continued walking without the knowledge of her absence. She wouldn't dare to hand over such a magnificent line for the sake of a few recollected memories. Not this time. This time, there was another. She had fallen again, into a deeper and more meaningful love than she could even fathom. The passion and comittment enraptured her, enfolded her in waves of ecstatic joy she had never known in all her years of happiness. It was the separation from him, the rift of absence, that haunted her with adoration and longing for her beloved.

She could take it no more. With a conclusive jolt, she raced back to the end, hoping for some remnant of what she'd left behind. And there amongst the rubble was his body, pierced and battered for her sake. She buried her face in his chest, knowing that it was her foolishness that brought about his death. And out of the indistinguishable darkness, she whispered, 'I love you, my Jesus, I love you!.'