I need to speak of love, to break free of love, to chain
self to love; this multi-dimension, this malevolent riddle, this place so
gentle; to know for paradox, as crawling her womb—this fear of man—above
chandeliers, while dwelling in crystals, seeking for a fortuneteller. It’s more
a small tale, chasing a desert wind, as mad enough to clench it; where hell is
tired, and soon relents, to two as matrimony; to court grayness, seeping into
beige eyes, where our pupils are saffron. There’s burgundy water, and mauve
eyebrows, and turquoise fingertips; as nibbling peach-fuzz, or scratching
gently, where blood trickles within. There’s pedicured toes, as for manicured
thoughts, as for an elegant garden. I must speak of love, as this faraway land,
as something so close to thrones; in which, our nights would listen, to
morning's message, a mouth filled with breath; to cherish our failings, as one
so embarrassed, as to scavenge through perfections; for I saw a dream,
sheltered in a thin physique, where weight fluctuates. It’s a woman’s
nightmare, as forever this chase, to maintain a petite stature; as we see it
not: the days as long, starving for gourmet, or even a wet burrito—or steak
nachos, or a decadent bar, or marguerites. Oh for calories, to fulfill a dream,
as to love the unconditional; or rage in fury, for he speaks rarely, of the
fluctuation of weight; where winning dies, as to want and not want, a tyrant as
a friend; as this is love, the shallow for deep, as cultured in Europe, Italy,
or France; where love is mixed, a series of images—a woman as a goddess; to
frown with love, as a petit icon, where gristle is loved in America; where eyes
are heavy, as doubts are loud, where both suffer from straying thoughts; to see
it strengthen, those subtle gestures, as exhilarating as seduction; to love
through bleeding, the sap of oak, as this indelible force. Oh for love, this
tan affection, as to drift into black and white; where heaven is words, and
words are passions, and passions are anxious.
