I’m confused about behavior. It seems a faithful arm; either
we perish, live, or fight against the social standards of society. When hell
freezes over, they say: I’ll behave
according to others. I can’t fathom the myth of love; where all is perfect,
this romantic chateau, and fevered through mere proximity. It would be years to
come, before love would become rational, as opposed to this shallow fantasy: to
see her as a woman, even a human, or rather, an imperfect creature—with
perfected behaviors; this beating soul, while crystals blink, and eyes grow
watery. I found us tentative, holding back our natures: I met her a month later,
while terrified to think, this texture of agony, while terrified to lose; for
it’s more behaviors that treacherous voyage, where charm settles into private
thoughts; while to clasps that first kiss, this moonlit champagne, dining until
birds come out to chirp. The moment has
passed. This shift has arrived. The stars are closer. I love us skiing, this
condo love, persuaded in a hot tub; to love beyond closure, this misguided
myth, shifting through grandeurs. Our psychs are pulling; our histories are
challenged; our dreams are crucial; to see this fancy, this inner conviction,
as to seek the closes parish; while love is courted, this meth experience, too
distant to truly love; as days shiver, while words plummet—the souls of waking
eyes. I love us in youth, as oh those frantic waves, that appeared so precious.
It’s sheer catastrophe, this outward mirage—this soul stressing deserts; to
rearrange pain, as to change affects, that manner of humankind. I loved
sightless, this fatal affair, to ponder the greatest woman. She came with
stars, as to wreck this soul, a woman too far that jaded passion. The scents are burning. The hearts are
boiling. This woman is simmering. She knows this name, to feel vibrations, as
longing for more than charms. I tried to love, as one affected, this popular
science; but how for closure, this mystical art, where faces have grown weary;
to see for nights, that fatal angst, where tears dry upon flesh. I’ve wiped dry
skin, as to message sore egos, tripping through vast lagoons; to skip and swim,
or sink and scar, that series of sufferings; this outer parody, this surreal
life, that too close satire; but oh for arts, watching the tides, as feral as
repressed souls. Let it be gentle, this inner thermometer, as rising above
heights; to see her eyes, and soon collapse, that closer to breakthroughs.
