I love us; this mythic terror; to know
through death this love bolted to chaos; this glorious love, as a terrifying
volt, as to rupture in night-screams.
I
spin forever these lines, to outrun mirrors, to outwit catastrophe; for love is
luggage, that before and after, to carry it with loving pride; to know her as
angels, filled with integrity, to see her faint with destruction; to hold this
voice, our palms thrust with nails, to reach forth and soothe a wound. It
mustn’t be real—this faith as love, for two—a generation of passed emotions;
whereat, were petals, and wines in crystals, and grapes as aphrodisiacs. It
had to live us, this life of adult scars, to relearn this thing bleeding trust.
I swirl mane, and trim eyebrows, and purchase tampons—to witness wheels,
spinning midair, while broiling sirloin steaks. We love for onions, stirred in
rice, as not to forget the bell-peppers; so I
love us; this mythic terror; to know through death this love bolted to chaos;
this glorious love, as a terrifying volt, as to rupture in night-screams; as
having this vulnerable moment, where she sees us as frightened, to hold us that
second her bosom. I speak of men, as living façades, captured in the pleats of
ideals. I speak of women, afraid to live torn, battling for one love. Oh to
feel it, this sea of seismic stars, rumbling through metaphysics; as something
esoteric, to touch us as vibrations, to live with deep-seated insecurities;
while she applies L’Oreal, this moment in time, to watch in silent reverence;
for I love us; this mythic terror; to
know through death this love bolted to chaos; this glorious love, as a
terrifying volt, as to rupture in night-screams; where pressure is love, to
subjugate a scar, one skating the barriers of decades; to die as living, or to
live as dying—her face a treasured incantation. I spin forever such tears, to
outrun mirrors, to outflank catastrophe; because truth churns, through webs of
silence, where a gesture wrote a novel, and a woman sprung joy.
