Love is the single most powerful force in the universe to Tablo. Love and hope bloom in the worst and best moments, love drives people further than they think they ever can go otherwise. Love creates more loyalty than fear can, decides whether something is beautiful or not, brings warmth to an ice-imprisoned heart. Love breaks down barriers so that people can come together.
Love is trusting someone enough to rip your ribs open, pull your heart out to set it down on train-tracks, and trusting, trusting, trusting that when the train comes, the person of your affections will pick it up in time.
Love is when music crescendos into the perfect spiral of notes and lines, becoming something so vibrant it's almost a real picture-- like an image you can't see with your eyes, only your ears.
Love is a color deeper than red, brighter than neon, cleaner than white.
Her socks left in the middle of the wood floor. Her laughter coming somewhere from the bedroom. The coffee cup she insists no one else is allowed to use. Her dark brown eyes, the natural wrinkles crinkling around the edges charmingly as she speaks. She is beautiful and that is love.
He wants to watch her grow old, as morbid as that sounds. He wants to count the wrinkles as they form, kiss all the imperfections as she collects them down through the years, promising her that they only make her even more beautiful. He wants her hands to always fit inside his own, in that amazingly warm way, the way no one else has ever felt. Night after night, falling asleep curled up around her like a shell, and then every morning, waking up to her drowsy, sleepy face.
He thinks she's adorable and he has a feeling that opinion is never going to leave him. To him, love is kissing slowly, laughing loudly, holding each other after midnight as they cuddle inside a million blankets while watching B-rated action movies. Love is looking into her eyes and seeing the same affection looking back at him. Someone once told him that even spending a year with a woman felt like a very long time, but four years with her wasn't long enough. Four hundred years with her wouldn't be long enough. Love is her.
When he makes a mistake, looks away from the road for too long, gets distracted too much and doesn't see the headlights heading their way, he is thinking about love. About how love itself must taste like raspberry wine and dark chocolate, because that's the taste on her lips.
And then she screams and the tires screech and panic sets in through his entire body, but it's not enough, nothing is enough while everything is all too much. He's not sure, but from the jolting impacts, he knows he's hit at least two other cars, one of which must be larger than the last because it packs the biggest punch. The car turns over, spins too many times; gravity loses it's function and forgets how to operate.
When he wakes up, he is alone in the car-- he knows this because it's the first thing he thinks about. Nevermind that his feet feel like his hands and his head feels like a balloon and he's covered in blood and motor oil. The airbag has saved his life, but his wife is missing and he doesn't care that he's leaking everywhere; all that matters is finding her. Even in his half-stupor, parts of his brain probably left on the dashboard, his heart directs him to care about what's most important.
He stumbles on the pavement, scratching his palms and his knees through his clothes, falling a moment. The moon has frozen in the sky and all the stars look strangely gray, as if they're not burning anymore, only just holding their breath.
Love is her. Love is thrown from the car, despite the seat-belt she wore, despite the future she had, despite the daughter still at home with the babysitter. Love is half-smeared across the cement, broken into too many different places, the blood seeping away from her as though it never belonged to her in the first place. Love still beautiful but now there is no affection in those eyes; there's nothing.
She's laying on the road, almost like she's sleeping, and he can't do anything, think of anything, can't help anything. He lays down with her, carefully touching her hands because they're supposed to fit so well.
She doesn't answer. And even when he presses his forehead against hers, and even when he screams for her, cries for her, begs for her to stay with him, to take a breath, to come back, come back, come back... she doesn't answer.
Love is her. And love can conquer even death... can't it?
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