YOU NEED TO BLEED

You tapping the keys, how much of love have you taken in? You bright young thing bemoaning life you have not lived, what words are these? "She said he said, her eyes his eyes... I love you..." you write, describing faces you have never met, emotions you have never felt and pain - when did you last bleed?

When did you last feel - and have you ever felt the robbing of the breath, the long exhaling sigh without the taking in to follow; moments when your life remained suspended and the need for oxygen denied... Times when day and night merged and stars befuddled eyes trying to see past the brilliance of instants - so bright they blinded sight and only left the other senses, acting nonsensically.

You tap out love as though you know it is the intimacy of skin. "His hand touched mine, his lips were fire, her skin was velvet "smooth"... Yet love - the grandest love is ruined by skin and sweat and moaning, grunting, like an animal, coupling without finesse - without the gentle murmur of divided solitude...

You dare attempting capture of this love in words? Keys pressed and letters following one the other do not description of a passion make. You capture air, illusion and some fluffy commentary where all the right words are said... so to be said. "He said, she said".

Oh but you have no wounds, no seeping sores from which the puss of lovers lost and blood of lovers living in this blood can be drawn from. Imagination and some foolish make-believe where the end is good and kind and 'loving'... this you draw from and from this you spew out your unnecessary would-be emoticons.

What do you know? One cannot speak - let alone write about this love you spin - unless one is dying of it. Only then, only from that near-dead space can one form sentences and within them examine the dying and in turn the loving. For there is death in love and love in death and the two exist like conjoined twins. One cannot love without the agony of dying and one cannot agonise over dying unless one takes with them one half, leaving the other half behind.

Write something else. Leave love to those forlorn and those enchanted and those dragging corpses and those leaving bleeding trails in their wake. Leave it to those who breathe the solitude of death and sip the wine of madness and drift in rooms where windows obscure light.

...So she wrote, jealous of those bright young minds. The endless time stretching ahead and their never knowing that these words, these early attempts at confining, capturing and reproducing on the page are but mere triflings on the stage; the stage where dying actors play out the grandest, most preposterous plays of the heart.

...So she wrote because she dragged too many corpses of dead actors and the new one in her blood defied description - still though, breathing life into her...