I Meant to Say Hello

I loved us in haste—so young—so weary; this forest of dreams, camouflaged in anger, a tare too young for love. Be in stillness, this thrumming night, infused by your aura; to believe him not, for pain is law, as casual as a sip of Pepsi. I’ve died in us, this world of fantasies—this esoteric dream; to feel you in private, as so far our distance, as to believe it’s you: this sullen soul, this sacred shrine, this mystic stealth. We’re breaking free, this myth of dreams, intoxicated with pure liquor; while charged with anger, for life is complex, as transforming energy—this hypertension, abated with love, satiated with hopes: this furious wind, this inner thunder, as confused concerning love: its demarcations, that fatal island, that essence wrapped in divinity; to see for dreams, this human of a woman, at morning disposal. It’s more ballet, plus, yogic rites, melded into mystic rituals; while born to love, as soaring to perish, this beating heart; where thumps are wrecks, this inner collision—our day of enchantments. I hear us less, to feel us more, this child seeking therapy. I speak of self, as engrossed this life, a falcon as a phoenix; where art is gesture, a subconscious flooded, where an unconscious speaks. It’s quite alarming, this mind as raw, twisted through sequences. We know for mystic, to stream humanity, that closer to disclosing love; this faint event, as pushing forward, to claim for triumph: where lands were barren; where spirit was plush; this woman furnished in hostilities. I feel us watching, in tuned with energies, even to ignore proximity. I see us falling, to reckon proximity, alive in our sadness. It mustn’t be us—this art so rich, but poor in actualization; to cry this life, baked in anguish, a firefly as an omen.