I’m
terrified, and ever for love, an oval face. She lives immortal,
ever
for gothic, to convulse magic. I die a tear, to flog a soul, to
mangle
flesh. It’s curves, and ever seduction, a year in Rome.
We
flip it mental, to writhe a dream, to color flaws. I see her to
trick
death, to mingle life, sipping a Daiquiri. I inhale deeply,
to
argue pigmentation, hoping for beyond. It’s us, skipping
scruples,
to vet a nightmare. It’s us, cringing light, infected with
darkness.
She’s clever, ever for contract, to rapture an afterlife.
I
joy—for uneven, to ignore tactics. I’m passive for aggressive,
wrestling—finger
to a navel. I’m drizzling, ever a heart, a
partial
idiot. Its crayon tears, and featured scars, bedded in one
session.
We nestle, ever with scenes, to remember a first kiss.
I
was there, a total self, a mystic leaf. We leapt for time, a tender
rose,
a sheer delight. I love it to speak, a simple task, masked in
visions.
It’s something antique; and biblic caves, to touch her
thigh.
I wrote a legend, a frontal pose, to read every line. We
paused,
to act a fever, a militia of cries. I mourned an eyelash, to
cast a wish, and trim
split ends.
