Somehow
it’s rare, despite the many, to seize it come death; that vacuum love, ever to
transport, to hold for dear life; the torrid nuances, speckled with bliss, that
one more kiss; to season grays, with spectacular colors, to feel security. Oh
this chase, as fragile as chess moves, as complicated as puzzles; but we love
it, to feel alive, the likeness of eternity; where Doves Cry, the rain is purple, to thirst as humans: the scales of
privy, to find for perfect, that old cliché; but heart to soul, to wash her
shoulders, to scrub her back—following the salient winds, the rocky mountains,
to soak in a bathtub; to see her eyes, screaming affection, blaring, Barry
White. The world is mythic—her candescent mind, as religious as reality; to see
for webs, the skates of time, as criminal as the unspoken; thus the words, this
graphic pandemic, a twist towards normal; wherefore the love, her beige brows,
crafted by wisdom. We never thought it, the pains of connection, the joys of
this warmth; to slice a grape, to dye wine, to mix it with clarity: the days of
passion, the mix of fevers, to greet five in one; this mercurial woman, the
myth of literature, as alive as seastorms. It couldn’t be—the richest womb, the
greatest tease—to die that place, to nearly collapse, to pull at flesh. We defy
logic, whelmed in chaos, to sense the order; for oh the theories, to pitch for
quarters, to lean a coin; where this is life, a constant correlation, the sound
of flutters; in which is love, a triple beat, to trouble consciousness. We
couldn’t leave her—ever to watch her, as riddled as the sphinx; where passion
is rain, that churning shadow, to finally yell back; to see for glitter, the
eyes of Argus, a bit aroused. Oh the mystery, to perish sorely, enlove with
Calypso; for oh the trials, to prove for self, that tornado of climbs.
