Where does love go when it has died?

Hello my little romantics,

I'm sitting here all by my lonesome at work, trying desperately to finish tasks off my To Do List, and listening to sad songs. I of course am having no success checking off those important boxes on my list and have instead immersed myself in enjoying my sad songs and contemplating love that is lost and POOF a little ditty popped in my head. I think that we should always remember that as great as love is, the loss of it is even more poignent because when we find it again it makes us appreciate that new love that much more. As sharing is caring here's a little treat for everyone.

Cheers!

Janet


Unedited and Copyrighted by Janet Eckford

I watch him as he meticulously cuts his meat before he places it in his mouth. He gives a grin of approval as he chews on the savory steak. We love this place, it’s where we had our first date and we make an effort to come here at least once a month. Tonight is different though because it’s our anniversary. A marker in time of what we have given and received from each other. He smiles at me as he points to my plate with his fork. I nod an affirmative and spoon soup into my mouth. I make a face of appreciation at the spicy flavors of the broth and the subtle texture of the vegetables chopped expertly inside. I am pleased like he is pleased by the food placed in front of me because that is something easy to focus on, not the elephant that sits at our table waving a white flag of surrender.

We are silent as we have our meal. The bustle of the popular restaurant providing a symphony of noise and vibrancy we lack in our lives. We are comfortable and we are complacent and that spark of joy and exuberance we experienced in the past as died. It flickered for some time hoping we would feed it the oxygen it needed to blaze once again but we didn’t have the time to tend it, didn’t make the time to care, and now that last spark of hope is snuffed out.

“I love this place,” he smiles at me from across the table.

“It’s the best,” I reply with my own smile.

Such good little actors in a play that should have had its final curtain ages ago but the audience expects one more act, one final call. I look at my plate because if I continue to look at his face I know I will see the truth we both know reflected back at me. Love doesn’t live here anymore, it has died a slow and painful death, and all that is left in the silent halls of our existence is the ghost of what once was, a phantom that haunts us night after night, because we know it is there, a memory of what we used to have.

“Do you think we should plant roses this year?”

I’m desperate now because as the silence deepens I can hear that damn elephant sighing in frustration from being ignored.

“That’s something to think about,” he answers with a sound of introspectrum that is too great for the question.

I think he can hear the elephant as well clearing its throat and begging for our attention, so he focuses on the question I have thrown out there like a life savior in the storm that has now become our existence.

“Yes, something to think about,” I murmur as I catch his eye.

We have our moment, where we recognize what we have become, but I don’t know who looks away first but it is lost and we are back where we started.

“I love this place,” he says with false cheer.

“It’s the best,” I reply with a sad smile.

Our elephant lowers it white flag of surrender but knows that it can’t be ignored forever.