Love Child

He is a love child in the truest sense of the word. Born in love, born for love, and love will be the death of him. He is slender-limbed, pale and tender all over as if untouched by the sun or anything else that may leave a mark on his baby soft flesh. His hair is fine milkweed fluff, always the target of loving caresses or sweet kisses from his adoring mother. He is hugged, carried, coddled, and spoiled, effortlessly charming every soul he encounters. His grins and giggles are irresistible, and he is showered with gifts and treats to keep him in the innocence of pure joy. The world falls in love with him, and he falls in love with it in return, ignorant of the torment love will bring him.

He is moved by his senses. He groans in ecstasy as he crushes sweet summer berries against his tongue or licks melted milk chocolate from his fingers. He is hypnotized by the scents of spring blossoms, campfires, even the subtle ghost of first snow carried on a frigid breeze. He stares, agape, at anything beautiful, whether an intricate piece of art, a blazing sunset, or his mother as she brushes her long hair. He will let his eyelids fall and lie back on the floor wherever he is, paralyzed in the strains of a magnificent symphony or mellifluous voice. Anything soft to the touch arrests him, and he nuzzles a sleepy kitten, a handful of rose petals, or a freshly washed blanket against his cheek. He inhales glory, and exhales joy. The whole world has him in a thrall.

Blissfully blind, he opens himself to anyone, through a rosy lens seeing in them the same beauty and purity that possesses him. He does not see the sadness and dread in the eyes of those who know how completely the world spoils perfection, and how temporary are the richest beauties. He smiles and opens his arms to all, not knowing that when he grows older and loves whoever will have him with all of his might, holding nothing back from those with whom he shares pleasure, he will receive pain, judgement, and emptiness in return. He does not realize that while he cherishes beauty, caressing it with tender, pink fingertips or holding it delicately upon his tongue, others consume and devour, spoil and destroy all that is lovely.

He laughs freely, not knowing that there are bloody wars being waged over matters he will always be too innocent to understand, that he will have to take up arms against others, to cause pain and accept death when he was built only for love.

He sleeps deeply and easily, having only sweet dreams as real worries have not yet tainted his soft, safe existence.

And as he dreams, his mother lies awake weeping for her child, who should never have been born to this world. She knew when he was only a twitch in her belly that a child of love can never grow up, but can only be destroyed.