The face of love

She sat there every day, under the tattered shadow of the oak, combing her serpentine locks. Locks that looked alive, moving of their own accord, or was it the wind playing with them? Who knew? There she sat, each day after sundown, combing her long hair that acted as a veil, never once showing her face. I knew not from whence she came or who she was, all I knew was that she was meant for me.

And so, on a full moon night I ventured out with an amateurishly written love ballad in my hand. I reached her and spoke. On and on I went, my love for her a waxing eloquent. And yet she uttered not a word. She heard me though, I know, for her hands stilled. I strove on undeterred but as her silence stretched, my bravado faltered. Haltingly I asked why she wouldn’t say anything. In response she turned. I can still recall my scream for it was the last that passed my mortal lips.

Today I sit under the tattered shadow of the oak tree, every day after sundown, next to my love who has no face.