Even
to become you is easy—this detrimental love;—this fluorescent kiss; as given
leeway, to pardon infractions, ever your temperaments. I caught a glance,
enrapt’d in spells, this inner potion; as meaning diluted itself, for exchange
this great affair. I saw beauty, this hypnotic gem, nibbling strawberries. We
choked on love, as given up this ghost, clawing our way into a pit; for beauty
is free, this morbid freedom—forever this poverty; for love is distant, as to
welcome love, this fiend for love; to feel desired, as in our first weeks, this
torrid sensation. It’s but a month—our words, as deep as poverty. We panic for
words, where sex is law, this animal attraction; to seek our surface, where a
moment flourishes, to rebirth love. It’s second to second, this game of Ping
Pong, as to determine this future. We filter vineyards, enlove with grapes, to
pause at a winepress; where love is florid, ever to become you: that manic
smile, those sable eyes—that gesture your soul! We mustn’t perish, for
something so vain, as for this want for electricity; this fervent need, for
constant rapture, ever this far-reaching evil; as this grinning infusion—as
ever paranoid—as frightened of intonations. There must be liberty, to suffer
such poverty, as lakes coil through chambers. It’s easy to love you—this beautiful
tragedy, as confused as adolescence—as wild as instincts; for I saw love, this
hypnotic light, cursed with a halo; to dine for dancing, this dangerous world,
as a wretched wound; to channel with grace, as finished with school, as prone
to etiquette. It’s easy to hold you, when words are florid, when there’s a tear
for comfort; when all is hell, this inner rebound, as to reach for
guidance.
