We
know for parts, the love of love, semi-distorted; to filter this life, as wife
and husband, to journey the monsoon. You took me broken and stumbling and
fairing for composure; to die my plight, to suture my wounds, that desperate to
love me. We feel such love, grounded in faith, the measure of, It Couldn’t Be; to chime and dance that
magic carpet and flooded with pills. I warm this love, that inner whirling, as
vulnerable as newborns; for the sheer affect, to climb through pictures, enlove
with said parts. We find for days, the matter of grays, as tangible as a
heartbeat; with skipping time, to swarm a pendulum, a manikin come alive; and I
loved a myth, as potent as inner wise, that further to the horizon. It’s more
the mystery, to secern thoughts, as confused as a single mother; where hell is
favor, a deep infusion, for otherwise is unknown; and spread for wings, the
eyes of a child, to give what’s lacking: the torn wisdom; the ache of love; the
watch of mishaps; and this is love—to perish her breath, and pursue forwardly.
I know a love, a partial stranger, and sorely aware of my mind. How for this
thought, to read for years, and gain understanding; to be like friends, and
love so purely, to die each infraction? If only to remember, the faceless
shores, racing through the islands; where love is life, despite the
demarcations, to channel the evening doves; for this is love—a blessing to
carry, to marry this fraction of perception; and this is love, to greet a
stranger, with a familiar essence; and this is love, to perish so often, as
grounded as steel, sorting through the particles; where this is love, to touch
a soft cry, and die the confusion. It mustn’t be, this fatal love, to perish
with such a friend.
