I
felt you, the touch of hearts, as platonic as energy; or is it so, this partial
energy, connected to intelligence; this inner force, to course through waves,
to permeate the heartcave. I hear you more, this silent language, to read your
eyes; as one crying, saturated in balance, this outward sensation. The soul
pants, at vibrant brooks, engraved in destiny; in which for dreams, to chase as
cheetahs, alive come the capture. It couldn’t be real, this world of spirit, to
communicate so grayly. Oh the slow dance, even the tiptoeing, to say, I love you. We mustn’t face it, and we
must to face it, this realm of mystery; to chime like dreams, an inner karaoke,
our mental songbirds; to want for perfect, and always striving, to be something
grand. I love you soaring, as one with innocence, stranded with privileges; in
which are fevers, that inward thrust, pushing that outward wave; to sing a
heart, to shoot a tornado, even a tsunami. We feel for months, this inner tug,
to fret over the presence; but how for souls, to affect for souls, at such a
distance. Oh the swan, feral with depth, as torn as the exospheres. I cry and
laugh, and laugh and cry, trying for normal; but what for this, to wimble
minds, as telic as science; the deep despair, shadowed in bliss, these forces
at war; to hassle a soul, to shred a mind, to witness our neighbor’s
reflection. I call and wane, I grow and die—changing in increments; to usher a
force, that greater than life, as thankful as a saved refugee. Oh the nights,
to ponder your soul, to suddenly feel your presence. What for this mystery, and
how do you know, exactly as I ponder? It must be a gift, this glory in cloth,
the cloth of the flesh; to dip a notch, that far sullen, to suddenly feel with
joy.
