CYCLES OF DESIRE: The Geometry of a Hollow Heart

Here we go again…

Cycle #3952—
	strip the silk,
	settle in the standard, stale positions,
	practice the pious, pre-programmed pantomime
	exactly as previously penned.

(Yawn.)

Whatever happened to spontaneity?
To the reckless, radiant rumor
	that love was loose —
	unmetered,
	unmasked,
	unmeasured,
	un-everything?

Are only fools still buying
that glittering fantasy —
	or are they simply
	the last ones
	brave enough
	to throw away all scripts?

Are only fools still finding faith
	in that glittering, ghostly fantasy—
	or are they simply
	the last ones
	bold enough
	to burn all brittle, broken scripts?

Oh — and hey,
before you go:
	could you possibly grab
	a side order of fries
	and a Pepsi?


Miok was draped across the couch like a Renaissance painting that had given up —  arms folded,
eyes at half-mast, radiating the specific ennui of someone who has heard every love song and
found them all slightly off-key. The poem hadn't even finished evaporating from the air before
she lobbed her verdict into the room with the casual precision of someone tossing a grenade into
a birdbath.

"So," she said, savoring the syllables like a sour bonbon, "if someone yawns during a love poem,
what does that tell us about the pulse of the passion?" The question hung, heavy and hollow.

Jules, deep in thought, rubbed his chin absently, then gazed on a crack in the ceiling, as if it
might unveil some hidden truth. He finally replied, "I don’t know... but what most people call
'love' feels more like a series of choreographed routine—marks taped on the floor, cues
memorized, applause expected on schedule." The words rolled off  his tongue like a reluctant
confession, echoing quietly in the room. Even the distant traffic seemed to slow down to think
about it.

Miok smirked, the expression creeping across her lips like shadow over stone. "Exactly.
Ritualized routines rot. They go stale—like fries left cooling since the collapse of a Fukushima
core." She stared at a blank patch of wall with a look of half-insane, comic clarity, and Jules
let out a sharp, surprised laugh.

Cantara, perched on the edge of her seat, waved a dismissive hand, her fingers already cracking
open a soda with a satisfying hiss that sliced through the thick air. "You guys think too much.
Relax. Here—have a Pepsi." She tossed a can toward Miok, the effervescent fizz spilling like a
small celebration in their otherwise dull conversation.

In the corner, Chris stirred, blinking as if surfacing from a long, unintentional slumber. "Did
someone mention drinks?" His voice was thick with the sludge of sleep, yet curiosity shimmered
in his eyes, a sudden spark that briefly brightened the somber, suffocating gloom.

=====================================================================================
from Heart Scenes: Emotional Landscapes via Art, Poetry, & Prose by T Newfields
Short-Summary: A disillusioned reflection on love's routines intertwined with humor and desire.
Summary:  In a fizzy collision of ennui and wit, four friends dissect the choreographed 
	exhaustion of modern love — and conclude that a cold Pepsi may be the most honest intimacy on offer.
Keywords: love rituals, sexual routines, desired performance, absurd intimacy, lust, 
	concentric desires, human connections, repetitive relations

Author: T Newfields [Nitta Hirou / Huáng Yuèwǔ] (b. 1955 - ?)
Begun: 2002 in Tokyo, Japan  ❤ Finished: 2026 in Shizuoka, Japan
Creative Commons License: Attribution. {{CC-BY-4.0}} Granted

Disclosure: This piece was partially generated using AI tools for styling and ideation; 
            human editing was then applied.

< LAST    https://www.tnewfields.info/HeartScenes/cum.htm
  TOC     https://www.tnewfields.info/HeartScenes/index.html
  NEXT >  https://www.tnewfields.info/HeartScenes/dan.htm