We Don’t Like to Study Love

I would listen or crystallize or make internal churns—to live as to love or to die as pleading contention so far into cleaving to angst; such bodily fires to have some concern while parts are dying; so special to souls so indifferent for others while electricity is flame such non-deliberation; as cultured vases or unveiled faces while one is so afraid of being described; our message so forbidden, our on-sight eyes where it was life but the fight was over; to collapse or to lose hope where it seems so appropriate; or caves in perception as lies in slavery where another is speaking economics. I haven’t craved as one those years where behavior was sheer motivation. to picture pure invisibility as not a want for history but driven by passion for another human; to disavow hesitancy to leap in while yelling or to scream such needs with fire; or something quantifying or asking for resumes while one requests to negotiate childhood fevers; to need to know concerning mother or father as qualifications for a first date. it wails about pain this search for perfect comforts as to find and die a blasé reservoir; or neat napkins, cold kettles, while fleeing full mental passion; our yearning aches our turning valves as vivid or vexed villains; after so many secrets while desperate for hives or feeblish by emotion if but so safe the guarantee is control.