Love – Purest Enigma

What path does love choose

Does it choose only to exchange

bodily fluids

Can it be a simple gesture

of thoughtfulness

Perhaps it chooses to entwine

itself around its lover’s soul

Does love exist

It’s not tangible

You can’t pick it up

It has no shape, and you can’t see it

It doesn’t make a sound

You can’t hear it

It floats like air

What is love

It is not just an emotion

It is an action, a thought

and even a kiss on the lips

It is a hug, a smile or a twinkling eye

It can be a sacrifice and

even a mother’s lullaby

Who needs love

Babies fail to thrive without it

A dying man craves it once more

Couples use it as their dance

Animals defend their young to the death

Plants produce more when loved

with water and proper soil

What path does love choose

You ask once more

Have you not learned that love is love

It selects the path to open arms

The concept of love

isn’t obvious, but surely is

The purest form of Enigma

Brushstrokes And Shadows

For Bree, the lifestyle in New York City is like a person hyperventilating—there is never a moment of silence or rest. Bree’s boss forced her to take the two weeks of vacation she had earned. All she had to do was figure out where she wanted to go.

Bree coiled her shoulder-length brown curls into a messy bun and called her best friend, Nancy.

“Oh my gosh. Bree! What have you been doing? How are you?” Nancy said.

“Hey, girl. How’s everything in Charlotte, N.C.?”

“Well, not bad, except our dog disappeared two weeks ago. Oh, and so did our indoor cat. It’s weird, we never let the cat out, and our dog Curly never went out without us.” Nancy changed the subject. “So, what’s been going on with you?”

Continue reading Brushstrokes And Shadows

On a bench of SOLACE

A loud slap across her jaw forced the woman back against the kitchen sink. The smell of jasmine perfume on her husband’s shirt sent salty tears down her face. The wretched memory of the night before made her throat hurt from the lump that formed. Lying on the park bench, book in hand, let her travel to worlds unknown. She heard the green leaves rustle in the trees as if whispering. At that moment, the bench became her friend–a bench of solace.

FREE to read: Short stories, book reviews, photography, and all things involving writing.

Ainsley Elliott

Writer of Paranormal Romance, Thrillers, & Short Stories

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