I’m
supposed to love you; this delicate madness, churning through storms; even our
plights, the troubles of breathing. We hold for hearts, to figure this rhythm,
as conscious as ferrets; to live the contempt, to find a moment, where life is
perfect. I saw a gait, for a prideful woman, an instance of disappearance; to
claim for souls, this inner trail, this outward force. We chimed delicately, to
touch the surface, a bit dissatisfied; for neither pulled, to figure their
parts, to disvalue the show; but more to love—to court for rubies, to pull for
responses.
I
loved your heart, a cord defensive, cycling through pains.
We
tug for wailing, that close to life, at once a pair. What for converse, to
filter assumptions, dragged at the root. We take it for granted, that session
of mating, where some forego.
I
hear a voice, to capture a soul, to speak to love; where passion is favored, to
ride the whales, soaring through waves; to sketch the chase, to face the music,
to finally fail.
It’s
akin to chaos, this inner drum, a moment in a series; to love the fruit, where
eyes are open, to discount the trust; but ever-again, the jewels of light, to
etch a pulse.
