We Yearn for Magic

The soil was rich, as to suffer atrophy, while we loved where we could; that warm glamour, too advanced to settle, where love becomes visions; this thing of times, desperate for three months, that fawning wave; to disdain comfort, this need for passion, that fiery saturation. We loved through experience, while to repeat that thing heard, featured at familiar restaurants. I enjoyed this woman, that sexual radiance, when words stung souls. We needed for pleasures, bagging petals in Ziplocs, while placing roses in bibles: it became us to laugh, as so thin our nature, spread from seas to islands. We never danced, or played the violin, while our piano was gestures of rain. Tears embedded love, yearning for solace, as to crumble during lovemaking. We sought responses, something so intimate, as one attached in moments; where hearts thought to ballet, while souls played the trombone, and pruning became an obsession; this thing of envelopes, sealed in silent traumas, reaching for this panacea; as rooted in souls, those outward jewels, where self felt so lonely; this room of warmth, this vibrant love, while minds ached with angst: screams would enchant; torture became this feigned addiction; and love was but an anchor for seconds.  We stole something, biking through vacuums, running while a kettle whistled: that inner voiceprint; those solemn scars; as to remember such brokenness; that thing with love, as shivering to be held, while roaming a distant fantasy; as to cry for laughter, this hysterical mind, freezing pies as a keepsake.  It could have been us, wrapped in substance, cringing at the likes of others; and it should have been us, reaching for cellos, while writing music; as it had to be us, cherishing seconds of love, trembling in another’s arms; this thing of times, this repeated past, while abandoned to three months: this sorrow of souls, where years are so vibrant, staring at bulbous eyes: where truths are lived, through the richest soil, as given time to breathe.