3:7, part one

Now the torn places almost fit together, but are still torn, still divided in two, as though love hadn't bound them together once. Doesn't love mend like needle and thread, like a salve on the wounds? Isn't love deeper than the disconnect that drifts off away from shore? Maybe the broken section of time will move backwards, stitch upon stitch, cell beside cell, to form completeness once lost.

How deep is the love poured into wounds of a friend? Isn't it thick and sweet like syrup, or thinner than dust collected on a shelf in the corner? Perhaps the time to love is always, yet some places can't feel the impact, being numbed with symptoms of indifference and a white picket fence of distance.