Three.

Mariachi Cover - Linger - The Cranberries

Three. 

That's what they say. 

One must fall in love three times.  The first.  Puppy.  So blind.  An introduction.  To a world... so Byzantine.  Alone traveling catacombs desperate for a light.  Yet believing the light cast out could suffice.  Just as the mayfly believes... in its short life, it would last forever.  For it's short life, be it a day... or two, it was forever.  The laughter, the elation, combined with the devastation, each were so short so fundamental if only to build to the number two.

He was there.  Gifts, one to the other.  For him it was Regatta del Blanc.  Hey, he thought it was cool.  She enjoyed.  Or at least she said so.  A month later, phone call from Paris, would signify that this ex-patriot should look for someone else.

So it goes.

Number two.  This is the one.  The burning fire that is supposed to forge the metal.  Blind beauty creates the most powerful of all.  The searing burn of every joy.  The utter delight of every dismay.  Smelting touches launch passion ready to ferocious flames leapt into so blindly.  So blind.  Siren's song crying each to each.  To feel the little death of each moment apart, to be repaid by the cataclysmic renaissance upon the reunion.  The rejoin of one to the other, to renew the one forged by the two.  In defiance of all... the one against all.

He knew this too.  The cataclysmal catalysist.  The one that forced him to drop is mask if only to feel the searing hot touch, as his hand rose.  Ever higher.  The hip.  The thigh.  The longing, the pulling, the shallow death just a moment from life.  And she... so it seemed.. longed to be made complete.  In the other.  Til the others, became the sedating placebo.  For the truth.

The truth.

Yet... 

This to...

must come to an end.

So they say.  In order to reach the third.  A love marked... scared by this world.  One is supposed to bow and accept.  Less than.  For nothing can be... settle for less.  Times.  Occurrences.  Her finger tracing along the book spine.  The clutching of hips, so soft, so subtle, so tight, that led his mind to wander... the tracing kiss along skin so soft, forever rising towards her heat.  Shallow, action following only action.  Quenchable fires surrounded by the difficulty... quenchable fires die.

The past.  The future.  All caught in a tense.  A tense that makes all that much more tense.

She might whiseper a secret, manic-depression.  He might believe. 

That is until he saw Goodwill Hunting once again.  One was a man caught in a past he could not escape, the other a man, such talent, who was afraid to let the future into his present.  Sociopath they called him.  One who could bend, others to make them think that he was there, all the while reserving, so they could avoid the pain... crushing... devestating... a pain he knew all too well.  Feeble blows showing fear, knowledge, that she had lost out so long ago.

He laughed. 

So it was.