Lover's Meet

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Dialogue between two fated lovers, inspired by: Shakespeare, Bon Iver's newest 2016 album, and a girl I love. (experimentally, this is an exercise in prose and dialogue-writing!)

Him

Hello, the cherished one, who made a butterfly of Life.

 

Her

Hi, there, my fallen victor, founder of The Kiln.

What bids you today, besides seeing the same white of my eyes paint our glorious white wedding?

 

Him

Hope's splendor!

My, how your words enbrighten our future, bringing the designer's fashion to our present day.

 

Her

...And to whenever else our open minds may dwell.

Here, in your familiar gaze, do I find myself awaiting little but your kindest words.

 

Him

My, how the Heavens of man are unfamiliar to the life we will make together, and my, how the Earth shall move at its pace original — no one left at the mercy of trespassed times, the ground covered with the daydreams you share, with only me.

 

Her

My, how the trees I remember never forget their blossomings! 

Tell me more, but first — let me love you into another role. 

What is your title common?

 

Him

It is obscured to me, in the shadow of the Bringer of The Day. 

What would you know me by? 

 

Her

Your words most precious, priceless as the dew.

 

Him

Yet even in these words are the honeyed curfews — the sweet embraces of The Nocturn Maker with me competes.

 

Her

Yet only I hear the heartiness of your words, like cooked rice to those hungering for better than well-intended parchments of words, which only forever leave more to the imagination. 

For your words are those which ring me complete, a circle made of one who has perhaps surpassed her sun's rise.

 

Him

My dear whose words reach this unguarded heart, by the moon's glow I would sing you awake from this horror which surpasses reason. Tell me. Tell me not your regrets, but your hopes, cherished like the fallen baby bird, who finds comfort in the warmth of your delicate hands. My ears are as open as empty fields, yet full of the forest of necessity — of hearing your words, troubled though they might escape your practiced tongue.

 

Her

Troubled though I seem, I must open my heart that my practiced natures might be outdone by my enlivening virtues, for I wish to show you only the best of what love itself may bring: a promise I have kept and keep. 

 

Him

Yet if this love turn burden, and burden be too burdensome, I pray that with me, whose love hides in unmet strengths, some troubles you do keep. Will you share what heavies the lightest amongst all I have met, my cherished figure?

As for the practice in your prose, I apologize for mistaking our time unique for how we spend our lives with others. May I never again confuse our meetings for anything normal, or routine.

 

Her

Your apology is accepted like a flower's seed has been planted proper, leaving me to water it.

But first: though bland all else might seem, altogether the rest of the world only turns gray because of the color we each bring to each other. And practiced may be fallacy to one like thou, who can read certain certainties, but there are girls who never end their practices, never finding the moments that make them complete. 

 

Him

An apology to better the last unfrights my future, and returns us to ours: I am sorry for parting too soon a feeling that couples with the wine we might one day drink. More certainly, I fight easy graces for having known the struggles of life to be unchanging, though with you, grace is shown apparent. Kindly, I beg your forgiveness as the clouds shower us with light rain. Here, let us speak beneath this oak tree.

 

Her

In understanding, not blind routine, forgiveness shapes the world, and transforms the mean. 

 

Him

But why do you cry, my love?

 

Her

These two tears fall for *your* heavy burdens, not my own.

 

Him

Alas, I wish to keep my burdens my own for the time being, for the only thing else I have in life is you, my Chel. 

 

 

 

 

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