it
gets rough to try, with carefulness to love or adore, to channel or observe.
unconscious tugs while we each imagine so infatuated with our screams. interior
statistics, “if but that life, I would be so perfect.” the best of our battles
the worse of our insecurities if but to trust as worthy of affection. —a man
dies by weakness, a woman lives by reassurance, while our chitzsu is panting.
to revel in sadness, not due to pain, but to love so dearly it aches; as never
pulling back, but stomping forward, to have the most intimate conversations.
humans become anchors. if to meet the best in souls. while a wholesome person
exhilarates existence. agaze’d or agile, fuming or fervid, so dusky by skies,
such drifting by sullenness, or so drastic by satiation—those powdered scents
or fresh soaps or sanitized such flowers, to feel artsy or elevated as
creatures a bit of romance. I have shifted perspectives: I need but one, this
incessant kneading, while I roam feeling hazy. in a moment we dance, in a
second, we click or arranged or awesome playing our violin; as imperfect trust
funds, or perfect delights, where humans grow or shift into cosmos. too unknitted
to return or too rethreaded to unknit while dreams are coming into position. if
ever to know intimacy if ever that feeling while we bat an eye at soul-mate
assertions!
