Citrus Orange Eyes

I think to you, those positive bipolar(s), those radical eyelashes—as fragrance sings, this inability to whisper, kissed in jasmine browns: our agony, at years to sacrifices, flown for carried aborted at lights—this misery, as set to deaths, while curried at livers: that shivering voice, this kleptic storm, our advisors warring sensei(s)…if but this night, agaze’d for ruined, at desperate sights fleeing injustice: this monstrous churn, this demon to flutes, this heart-torturing Goliath.  I failed in you, laughing at shames, our names embedded in mire: those trailing steps, this face to mud-pies, our rinse as revealing beauty: those bones to Labradors, this potato-rice, our gravies depicting calories—as bold with mother, this hectic dynamic, our frets unto cages…but more by you, this reckless lieutenant, this whistle engraved by Douglass—our Lancôme Paris, this shore in Malibu, that pair of suede moccasins…our eyes churning, this tiptoed dynasty, our years to wishing indifference.  I come by tears, laughing with anguish, forsook for drastic this math: our inner equations, this tinkering algorithm, our notion of love complex geometry—that cavy trenchant, this pensive device, our wistful longings—By Chance Channel, or brains askew, to feel with ecstasy this throbbing skull.  I dart to you, aloof concerning love, filled with smoke: our Lorac Angels, our Versace Demons, this planet to swarms affected as virgins: our Glitz popping, our souls retreating, our eyes signaling through mirrors—to affect our brains, as closure by warmth, or dungeons by intentionality…our parents sparring, this vineyard of warriors, as mother emerges a dragon: this field of mines, this diamond secluded, as realized this kef for sickness: those cultural instincts; this cultural chasm; our walks through caves allergic to realities…those beige rivers, those sandy sediments, this buoyant taste of misery.  I Geller a thought, to Smith illusions, abandoned to lines too spaced for closure: this Stella anniversary, this Stila sunshine, those Calvin Klein jeans…this denim ten-speed, this mental Schwinn, our Estee Lauder infatuations: as doctoring literature, for rare that effect, while purposed to perish last an absentee—our hearts to bees, as buzzing our corridors, this slight smaze beneath his tongue: if but to have, as aborted to levitation, our grins meeting with mischief.  I cry to you, as instead to lie to you, while all for angst, at love for you: this jogging miracle, this inner jugular, our jutted javelins—as arms reach, while sick a thought, to retreat as sensing courage: those mahogany bangs, this lazy gesture, that tinge as defending its inheritance—or more to singing, as sought our pianos, aborted for redeemed…this antsy visionary, this second embedded, to have with passion negative nuances: those anxious quirks, that temper to resistance, this tale as told that unworthy embrace…to rabbit our arcs, such captive moisturizer, such serum for mongrels.  I laugh in you, or wings to flight in you, while heavy this curse in you: our facial soaps; our rejuvenating lotions; our tales seated in solace…as miracle children, to love our scars, about familiar enough to settle confusion—this chorus lake, this Aveeno tribe, our bells as desperate while dying…and, nevertheless, this torture as genius, this torture as torque.