This
isn’t for that, as this is for that, to unravel chemistry; as born your life,
to panic as trauma, this coasting event; so much as passion, crossing stagnant
lines, in that place of holiness. I felt you in laughter, this present
vibration, as such were tears; to surf Atlantis, as reading Augustine, to
imagine such confessions; where love is a feeling, as seeping into actions, a
woman chiseling an ark; to have for daybreaks, this subtle annoyance, as to
fathom this sensation. I died to love you, as acquainted barely, as some type
of sickness; where love was forbidden, and love was screaming, and pain mounted
infusions.
I
tried to leave us, this vicious motif, founded in ovaries; to climb this womb,
and panic this stroke, as hips fall apart; to pause and die, as one afraid, of
this glorious woman. The years are attics, where mice roam, nibbling upon
thoughts; thinking of brawn, enflamed by substance, as wanting grave
intelligence; this gothic thrill, this internal freezer, sweating in a summer
rain. We’ve broken cameras, this false image, as captured by eye-prints; so
pray this soul-vein, streaming this mindcave, as bleeding to hold one moment;
or cherish this fancy, where such was monumental, to affect three fourths of my
life.
