I
love you like tomorrow isn’t coming, as we tiptoe the landmarks
Of
mars. Your eyes dream a former parade—and we die, swept
Into
a fever. I love you like tomorrow is ending—for this is the
Love
of satisfaction. I breathe your fairytale, unburdened by your
Attitude.
I ask not the inhuman. I ask the deepest layer—a cause to
Scream
and fly. Only furniture understands such stability, and
Only
a psych understands the unstable. We live as twain, afraid to
Stress
the oracle. And Neptune is crying, and Pluto is wailing, but it
Feels
normal to hold on to controversy. And I love you like tomorrow
Isn’t
coming, moving gently until, and we nurture such blankness.
Welcome
me to pluck a tulip, and foil a rose as a keepsake—for
Forever
is peeking—a mantle of heirlooms. I love you like tomorrow
Is
ending—and champagne bubbles, Love—as we fall in private, and
Rise
in public. Thus, a reservoir—our symbol, and life—our love.
