I’m
without a photograph—of something such music, a
drifting
love. I can’t act, but wonder: Is texture richer,
more
delicate, even late night groceries? I sliced
salmon,
bit a shrimp, mourning—we should ofs.
I lay
there,
overconfident, listening to blinds rattle with
winds.
I never touched such beauty, enchanted with
fairness,
a heart speaking of love. We ate, longing for a
message,
semi-damaged, filled with slight fever. Our
stamina,
something remarkable, where pain transformed.
I
colored your eyes, filtering sorrow,
writing
innocent poems. There’s a trail to your soul,
secret
from loving eyes, even mourned—for deep scars.
You
never wore a barrette, either clips or clamps,
flowing
in aesthetic. Everything was so new, afraid of
love,
impressing a certain style. We died for a semester,
loved
for a summer, ever a passion of purple eyes. A
trestle
sits blank, yearning for letters, long destroyed.
I
love her, I love her not type activity, where missives
were
burned, even scattered afar. What was our
intrigue,
pure esthetic, pinched with a firm
compassion.
Where others laughed, you cried, fully
responsible.
Hell tore heart—to hear of such turmoil.
To
love self is difficult, where affection takes
advantage,
reaming our souls. It’s pure addiction—to
fight,
where evenings witness such a rush.
