I’m
jealous for you, this infamous woman, our dear beloved. Your silent vocals,
radiate in madness, I’m yonder the passion. You speak disdain, to challenge the
shame, to drift so valiantly. I’m singing, burning with fury, amazed for
exotic; and there you dwell, a figment of thoughts, this voracious reader; to
want for antidotes, a friendless empire, resting as awestruck. I vanish in
presence, to flinch in terror, to stammer through conversations. It’s ever us,
as sheer the ghosts, two to never greet; this majestic ugliness, to think as
radical, the entrance of this force. You vibe in warmth, chided in grief, to do
as one pleases. It couldn’t be, this thing of dalliance, a mandala on a psyche;
where Auntie Mame would wax in flames, an oracle of adventure. I held you, in
such a myth, to invoke our deepest regrets; for what was it, to straddle
strangers, to gather a second glance? Was it chemistry, this vast abyss, a
stranger to a mirror; to see for riddles, to ponder transgression, this anchor
from childhood? We seduce at ease, this ethereal charm, at desperation to
discern life. It couldn’t exist, this deep perdition, a conclave of the soul. I
smile at unawares, as nervous and scared, searching for a bower; the torn infernals,
our empyreal trauma, disguised as a shelter. We want ambrosia, a bit confined,
to fantasize daily; to dear admittance, this deep frustration, to yearn your
eyes. It wasn’t salient, this force of pains, this inner anxiety. It was more a
pistol, nudging a rib, this pungent beauty. I treat you with sheer distance;
you treat me the same; as one captured in spiritual webs; to publish chaos, to
stipple infraction, as serene as a broken chateau. I savor this you, somewhere
afar, a woman struggling; to channel devastation, as an inner narrator, pushing
towards a miracle. It couldn’t be, this grotto of pains, this outward matinee;
this forward squall, our sullen fate, to gib like strangers; but such is love,
to never approach, a prophetic pain.
