Was
it coquettish legs, or cherry blossom eyes, or embedded techniques? They come
by nature, or mother’s influence, or stories concerning love; this vicious
beauty, as to rub a wrist—that come hither stare; or more sadness, peering at
reality—wrestling with an inner person; this torn good morning, a bit for
moody, to smile by chance that wit; this evening kiss, as passing through
lunch, while heated in passion; to die love, as to rekindle aches, that second
our worlds disappeared; to have such love, screaming those motives—our nights
as tender wishes.
I’m
wrapped in us, trekking this vast Thought,
sorting through teddy bears; as living by two—this inner excursion, while
to realize eternity; if must we
perish, our rendered hearts, we die palm to palm—as traipsing keenness, this
outer castle, while exchanging hats; as love is mental, as morphed in actions,
while to caress our wounded egos: My fair heart—as centered my soul—our words
but fragments of that feeling; to outgrow doubts, glaring at forever, our mourning come troubles; to
rise so gently, as to exchange faults, where arts soar genuinely; that mutual
manipulation, as cultivated with time, to love this nature a bit lethal.
Was
it air-pumps, arising that hidden space, as to flourish our huts; this treasured
amore, to laugh so valiantly, where gifts camouflage this anguish; for souls
would vanish, if not this love, as minds would sorrow, if not this love—and die we live, if but this love, as sick
for love as kings for kingdoms.
