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To Entropic Love

by Wade Villani 10 months ago in love · updated 10 months ago
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The poetry of love lies in its beginnings and its ends.

When we think of love: we think of sun light scattering thoughtfully through shutters; we think of the moon rising above mountain ranges and the clouds sharing its light with the sky; we think of it as whole, not partial, but solidified and undying. To know love, however, is to know that this is not it’s true form. A form that is no more a form at all than the shifting seasons. Love is limited, its beauty defined by its transience. To think of love: we should think of raging winds and crashing tides that together erode populated shores; we should think of two asteroids against all odds colliding in the vast nothingness of space, only to be sent hurtling apart once more; we should think of that beauty existing, not infinitely, but powerfully with finality in tow.

It was a particularly cold autumn night. It did, however, have the benefit of a cloudless adornment. The stars seemed to shine past the light pollution in a way totally unseen by her before. The sweeping spiral arm of her galaxy soaring amidst the backdrop of endless dark like the carefree brushstroke of a painter who, she mused, would later stand back in complete bewilderment and awe at his creation. Attending this party at the behest of her friends, whom she was sure would have murdered her had she missed another event. She waited patiently for that unspoken checkpoint in time, that signifying shift from impolite drop by visit to the adequately timed departure when everyone was a little too drunk to notice. Still gazing toward the heavens, she leaned nonchalantly against the verandah post. Smoke streamed from her cigarette which was but one toke away from singed fingers, then a voice. Through the sliding glass doors, ajar not so much as to fit a head through but still that voice from inside resounding out and within her. Looking for this disruption to her late evening ponderances she saw all heads turned to the worshipped figure. ‘Just some guy’ she quipped to herself as her eyes met the back of his head. Just as her curiosity began to wane and her head turn, so too did his. In this instant or millennia, she was unsure, their eyes met. Through the path of a stretching indoor monstera, the chatting heads with their Cheshire grins and the dimmed ambient light. All odds against them. Their eyes met. Her pupils grew wide to take in all the light from him. She felt her thighs tingle as the corner of her lips twitched ever so gently. Her heart like a tribal drum pounding in her chest and through that unspoken language she could see he felt as she did.


The spring sun brought with it the calm of new growth; fresh baked bread could not bring such intoxication from its aromas as does this faultless day. This day that surely stood in opposition to the world, a defiance of work or any menial task. An excuse to love and be loved in her own universe. She sits in reverence of life at a small circle table, cast into a weaving steel tapestry, like roots intertwined. Placed amongst her garden, here she sometimes imagines fairies with their shimmering wings gliding across the tabletop and diving into the adjacent pond, all the while giggling their tiny giggles. Across from her sits a mythical creature of her own, this beautiful thing. The sun seeming to kiss him on the cheek before reaching his book in hand, like a blessed thing with all the permissions of the cosmos. With her feet crossed upon his lap she leans back in admiration of her life. How filled with light it feels. How filled with love.


Winter’s chill seems to climb up through the creaky timber boards as she sits wrapped on the couch. Inaudible drones vibrate through the air from the tv, as she just stares. Stares through an opening to the outside, where a panel of the venetian blind has abandoned its post alongside its kin and allowed a little of the world to spill in. Her eyes are glued to their cast iron table out by the pond. Now drenched by the constant downpour, paint peels from the steel meeting the ground, and where the naked metal lay exposed rust begins to claim it. She wonders when it was last they sat there together; when it was last they looked into each other’s eyes. Her attention is caught by a small fly furiously fighting its end atop the window ledge, she feels strangely represented in that moment. Feeling like, not only was she looking out into the world, but the world was looking right back into her. From the corner of her eye, she catches him making a swift move to the door amidst the low light of that winter’s eve. She doesn’t hear the words that are coming out of her mouth, but she knows they’re carried on a wind of anger. Raging on he receives her fury and raises her, throwing his arms in the air with watering eyes. Everything inaudible like the tv, just waves of emotion carried across the chilled air. Now internally she screams, but out of confusion. How did it get to this point with this man, this love?


Beaded sweat slips down the back of her neck. A journey traversing the freckles, dimples and tiny hairs that take refuge from the heat behind the linen. This summer allows not a cool breath, the sun heating even the air she breathes as her chest rises and falls in patience. The blades of grass around her reach up in their desperate need for the sun’s nourishment and that ether itself, reaching back like God to Adam. Her eyes catch a mirage just over the rolling green, a beautiful thing seeming to emerge from nowhere. The more her eyes adjust the more she realizes there’s no mirage at all, just him. He walks with that walk, his way of placing his feet carefully but all the while without a care. In those seconds of his approach she questioned why they were at this point at all, what had gone wrong? All her memory allowed were the good things. His hand placed over the back of her neck, fingers reassuring her shoulder in their gentle way. Kisses to the end of her nose to warm it on cold nights. Why were there ever fights? She couldn’t recall, like an old woman trying to remember obscured but somewhat familiar faces. Tears begin to sting her eyes, to quell she tilts her head back and looks above. The cloudless sky permits the moon to dwell amongst the day, the cratered crescent, a homage to all beautiful things, however out of place they may be. Before she knows it, he stands before her, soft breeze caressing his hair just as she once did. His mouth opens and she assumes there are words leaving his lips. She feels as though she responds in kind but knows not what she has replied. All she hears is the painful thrum from her chest like an instrument within a particularly somber ode. She looks to his watering eyes and imagines dark clouds dawning over the dessert, all the creatures below awaiting what they’re owed. Then it was done, just as fast as it had begun. Leaning in, he plants a tiny kiss firm on her salty cheek, her fists clench in protest of his departure but she doesn’t speak a word. He turns and begins to walk in just the direction he came, she can’t bear to watch so she looks down and squeezes her eyes shut. Not knowing how long she had been avoiding the world she opens her eyes and that man, that love, is gone. In his place a lone marigold lay, planted strong directly in front of her feet. Its rich hues and undulating appeal comfort her, for she has loved.

The universe herself does not allow love to die completely. Just as all energy within our cosmic boundary cannot be wasted but always recycled, love too has its rebirth, its metamorphosis. The universe, that great conscious presence, cups her hands around love in its final moments and whispers in. These utterances bring forth an anthesis, the blooming brilliant emergence of love in its final scream against entropy. Her hands now unravel above fertile soils and from within that clasp is the love. Marigold. That flower modelled after those cosmic hearts themselves, the nebulae. These rippling beauties simulate all that is lost and gained in love, they stand as tribute to the unwavering ability of our hearts to bud and blossom once more.


About the author

Wade Villani

New to this campfire story time and seeking improvement (validation)

If you like or hate something I write please email me to let me know at wade.j.villani[email protected]

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