I whisper,
“Entangled sorely.” I muse over nicotine. I slam a stiff shot.
It was
distinct those dealings with you: such malfunction, plus, sophistication. Those
gifted insights—such riveting intellect—the shakes, the pressure, the islands!
I could
never infatuate where requirements are salient or fire is internal: a series of
measurements, or blue-brown eyes, while my Love is dismayed. At tragic features
or resolved in nonchalance where mirrors are ass-backwards. Such eczema
literature—so close to screaming, but this is inappropriate; our makeshift
dialogue, such oblivious disappointment, while maddening instincts rave over
inconsistencies; this battle in America, those puritan appetites, while Little Timothy developed a tumor.
I know
for darker skies—while listening for softer essence, or warring a rising
temperature.
They
put me there—in that classroom—and they designed me there, in that office. If
we met, prior to my birth, then, what is required to validate?
Each
person is captured, by something foreign, unrealizing those similarities.
Quilts
are laid. Those demands are quilted. While we fuss over stitching.
I was
somewhere into my escapism where fury filtered; this deep mechanism, to theater
our assets, to where it becomes natural: such jibbing, jiving, and jousting.
One
falls sorely, where the other is reluctant, for much was required to absorb the
other. This treachery this test or this treasure—where it was nice to meet you.
I sung a melody
such a chaotic voice, while hypnotized in altered states. Where something
simple becomes exquisite, or something irreligious becomes worshiped; our
waves or skies our souls or spirits while we haven’t decided; to see turquoise
intelligence, a striking body, and/or, such rich, sullen furtiveness; a man
offending by presence, or a curse he cannot see, or a blessing while avoiding
mishaps; to know but aura, or to see
something lurid, while needing its appraisal.
I speak
of old feelings where new feelings seem to avoid old feelings. I speak to
psyches or deeper pains while it can become a bit much. To die lightly, or to
resurrect harshly, while wounds leak leaving a trail of experience. But Love is
different, a strong, powerful presence, where her own have received her in
parts; our purpose changing, our routine smothering, while we return to our
former selves; those bleeding nuances, those nuisance trampolines, insomuch,
as, we have bounced enough. But Love is ironing. Every wrinkle is steamed free.
And we live through objects.
Our time
alone is both long and short—where we might perform an operation. Such parts or
those hands while I have known this intimacy. Such warm stumbling or smaller
infractions or losing where others join the parade: cider into carpets, stews
into toilets, and sounds made to ban the outcasts.
