Oh
my love; it’s so terrible, my love; but it was us, my love: dangling from
terraces, deeply enchanted, afraid to say, “I need you, my love.” Night is upon
us; to sculpt for madness; ever a kiss of poison; and oh we yearn, to flit and
fly, and freely to orgasm. I’m lost for words, ever free of words, even glued
to words. How is it, my love; to force for love, ever absent of love, spinning
through a fortune of love? I ask, jealous of love; for love possesses, even
love; and love is warmth, even love. I’m so lost for need, a taste of greed, to
feed on love. Are we sound, ever soundless, gripping composure? I cringe to
feel, where feelings are chasms, geared towards misery. It was ever to fly,
found and lost, sketching for freedom. But what is this thing, to flee a
mirror, and see a mirror? It was love, a shackled love, floating through time
and space. The trees were never, and ever so green. The fields were never, and
ever so pure. I trekked for gardens, chatted with wings, to muse upon loving;
for every poet, a touch of death; and every prose, the gift of breath. I love
you to love, spinning through letters, to live vicariously. I see you in
blankness, to stare at screens, where reality shifts for life. I’m up for down,
and down for up, ever to search for balance. It was you, my love; ever so bold,
to scold a reflection, tipsy off living vines. I’m shadowed, my love; to reach
for vanity, racing through vibe and portrait. Oh my love; it’s so terrible, my
love; but it was us, my love, dangling from terraces, deeply enchanted, afraid
to say, “I need you, my love.” Day has broken; to mold a feeling; ever to shift
for marsh; and still, my love; we drift through patterns, to mourn for love.
