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	<title>Beloved Giver &#8211; Fountain Magazine</title>
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		<title>Beloved Giver</title>
		<link>https://fountainmagazine.com/all-issues/2016/issue-112-july-august-2016/beloved-giver/</link>
		
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Louima Cunningham]]></dc:creator>
		<pubDate>Fri, 01 Jul 2016 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate>
				<category><![CDATA[Issue 112 (July - August 2016)]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Beloved Giver]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Literature & Languages]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[love]]></category>
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					<description><![CDATA[Love exists in forms that diminish with the touch of reality and disintegrate into memories: I would be a liar if I were to accept this as the whole truth, for love is volatile, a liquid shapeshifter. It molds into the shape and existence of the thing that is being loved. There is love that [&#8230;]]]></description>
										<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Love exists in forms that diminish with the touch of reality<br /> and disintegrate into memories:<br /> I would be a liar if I were <br /> to accept this as the whole truth,<br /> for love is volatile, a liquid shapeshifter.<br /> It molds into the shape and existence of <br /> the thing<br /> that is being loved.</p>
<p>There is love that passes through generations,<br /> a mere candlelight, each person a candle, <br /> their flame bewitching others<br /> and enlightening them with a delicate radiance.<br /> This flame is eternal only if one is willing to share<br /> the warmth across future generations.</p>
<p>There is love that passes through windows of the soul<br /> as a simple breeze;<br /> whether harsh, soft, or in the form of a tornado,<br /> it manages to brush upon skin,<br /> and never constant, nor still,<br /> it pierces through the heart with wind,<br /> leaving only debris.</p>
<p>There is love that passes through the closest and purest veins<br /> embedded within hearts, <br /> embroidered in societies and personalities.<br /> This is love that is Truth,<br /> greater than the salted night sky<br /> more vast than the knee-deep river,<br /> origin of itself.</p>
<p>My forehead touches the first ray of sunlight<br /> after the subtle diminishing fog in the morning,<br /> fingertips reaching for everything<br /> black holed pupils recording and absorbing.<br /> I hear the caged soul yearning<br /> <em>This,</em><br /> This is <em>love</em>,<br /> living in the presence of the Beloved.</p>
<h3>Works Cited</h3>
<p>&#8220;Charles Bukowski on What Love Is.&#8221; Brain Pickings. January 30, 2012. Accessed December 25, 2015. <a href="https://www.brainpickings.org/2012/01/30/charles-bukowski-on-love/">https://www.brainpickings.org/2012/01/30/charles-bukowski-on-love/</a>.</p>
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