The beauty of love - I wrote about it once; in a play. I disliked writing plays - I disliked what I wrote. I wrote it more than two and a half years ago. I was not in love - but traces of love had not left me; that carefully embedded shard within the very valves of my heart.
The beauty of love; taking the 137 - that red London bus - to Brixton station, accompanying her through the ever crowded Piccadilly line, kissing her by Regent Park, walking with her through Chinatown, passing the London Eye with her memory. ‘Her’ - how many different ‘hers’.
The beauty of Love, sitting with my pipe and flask in the dead black night of St. James’s Park’s winter; while strangers - both drunken and sober alike, stumble across as most do, in such friday nights. Or sitting within the Rose Garden, watching the nigh dead bushes of roses; again in the winter. Two different winters.
Walking - oh, the beauty of love - as though it were death himself on the Jubilee bridge. The lost wraith, too cold to move, to restless to be still. The beauty of love - in my fingertips frozen, unable to fill my pipe - so cold, that even the lighter would not burn. Did Love poison my lighter too? Where did it come from? Was it in the stillness of the silent Thames that I wished to dive in and seek out? Did it lie at Primrose Hill? Or, the Phantom of the Opera? In the wine that was poured on me, or the whiskey with her eyes before me? Did I litter it in all these places? Dropping crumbs every time I walked by, sat, drove, ran and slept?
In Victoria? In Vauxhall? Streatham Hill or Earl’s Court? The empty beds - always Queen sized - perhaps a King. A King in a king sized bed? Was it in the loss of faith, or its renewal? The destruction of peace, or its construction?
Oh what people do with the beauty of Love, in the beauty of Love, for the beauty of Love.