We
love you like sunrays, to feel for residue, a dauntless love.
Its
esoteric, to journey your soul, gripping bibelots. I conjure
for
spacecrafts, to soar for Mars, to hear for heartbeats. I’m
there,
love—ever sidereal, as gravid as bankruptcy. I’m
reticent,
to feel you see, the heights of affliction. Feel for
wisdom,
a dreamy-eyed girl, to raffle affliction. We love you
like
pagans, a feeling rapid, to sprinkle sun-chills. Life is
nectar,
a sweven star, as cozen as deceit. We wist a star, sipping
orange
juice, to meditate habits. It’s a cold shadow, to echo
rights—to
an empty room. I drift a tornado, semi-detached,
to
stream philosophies. Its vow to love—a nonplus touch—a
soul
to screech. We live it, if only a fantast, to channel phantoms.
It’s
you, a marbled stone, a fleet of ancient rites. I write it—to
feel
it—searching for a picture. We love you like Wiccans, to
drill
for voltage, a gallery of sights. It’s gray, a padlock affair,
to
scream for love. I watch it, a steaming teapot, too warm to
touch;
so more for towels, a quasi-rapture, something pictureless.
We
love you, despite for grays, as crazed as vampires.
