"Write," she said,
"about love be-
cause I'm
not sure you've been shown
what it looks like alone, away
from a beautiful face or
a lover's embrace, and
love may be felt in the body, but
it does not dwell there. Blood
corrupts what it touches, so love
can never truly live
here, embodied by
beating heart, taut flesh; it
visits those places like
presidents visit war zones,
sudden floods, disaster relief, and
Red Cross quarantines. Love
is a battlefield for our bodies, but
it's respite for your mind – the
only food to feed the soul. Can
you do that? Can
you take your pencil, dip it in skin
then paint the image left on paper again?" "I
I will try," I replied.
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