Proof

I can't prove that I've ever loved anyone. No evidence remains to convince that wrenching battles and waterfall emotions were once harbored in this body. Not an artifact endures to verify a capacity for boundless passion. Like a city full of strangers, all of these truths are buried in the depths of commonplace flesh and blood.

Proof lies in recurring demonstration; in repeatedly plunging in the labyrinth, foraging through the maze, and coming out the other side scathed in experience. These scars made in invisible ink (visible only to you), are gazed with ever-wizening eyes that fuel the codex of empiricism. Yet it’s a world without 3-D glasses, and so not a soul can see what’s marked you. In this pock-marked bucket of life, where water seeps out too quickly to staunch, the truth of love is evanescent, and proof lies only in the divulging of yourself each and every time. In showing the world that you are capable of love, and of the subsequent hurt and vulnerability that tag along with it. Only through verifying the hypothesis of it all can certainty be derived.

The grail of the heart can’t ever be fully known, yet know this; as sure as the strings of a heart play the melody of your soul, the proof lies in the epicenter of doubt, struggling to burrow its way through and proclaim it all to be true.