The most important thing to know about it is that it is over, that the wheels of dreams have given rise to the turnings of time, etcetera, again and again, déjà vu in the groin, in the spirit, and so it happens, that one is the loved one, the most protected and beautiful of all, and the other is the who gives the love, the most pathetic creature ever. In between those two extremes, lies the delicate, withering treasure, the string that holds them together, like a dangling, wingless bird, like an ocean of mucus, like a tongueless kiss, through and through, both lovers talk, but do not wish to do so, for they are both hot and bothered, unflinchingly, interestingly.
What was a song, it is sung, a word is written instead in a letter telegrammed with little, pointy and slimy fingers. The gunshots are problems of the matter, driven with liberal phrases, and liberal solutions, as if love can be quantified, when it can only multiply and divide. Whoever loves the least is the winner of a pleasureless game, a parade of miscommunication, whoever loves the most dies alone, always in the knowledge of something lost. There is nothing worse, they both know, imagine, dread, and reject, than loving in a manner more befitting of a slug, a worm with things to say and plans to lose, a failure whenever looking, wherever one journeys blindly. One knows that the bitterness of existence is only compounded when shared with someone who pretends to make it better, through the warm touch of tilted balls. What a game it is then to tingle indiscriminately, but it is no game in the deathbed, it is a treasure, like one that holds a relation together, that will become a relationship, then an emptiness, a thirst so absolute.
The lovers, then, with little options simply accept their unconditional surrender between each other, though they never learn to accept it. One always wishes to triumph over the other, by living longer or breaking it off early, while the other flails in obsolete etiquette, trying to salvage the proper heart, and the thread that has wrapped itself around the neck. So it strangles slowly, until both are suffocated by the inertia of living, so there they go: one with no teeth, the other with no pleasurable genitals, and they rub into togetherness, where friction rules, where it burns and drags and scrubs with blood, and then it is over, the treasure breaks into a million pieces, one laughs maniacally, one loses the temper of the senseless god, on and on and on, until no sayings are said. They know that they were never meant to be, but it is, in the hearts of hearts, in the chests where breasts are purely hidden, that the mark of the lover has been set, a deadened fact that the one was a lover once, and forever, until the end of time, in one particular cosmic exhibition with enough spiritual significance, the biting of a rug, or the pull of a torn curtain. So they kissed once, and that was enough, the unspiraling efficiency of discovering something they both didn’t need and didn’t want. The love ends like this: one is loved and one will love again, one will whoever loves them next, and one will be loved when it matters the least, and then, they’ll think of the previous one with a blushing embarrassment.