so
much darkness or a whisper such disappearance; as returned to you such sickness
we demand while we need to feel desired. truth is so ugly. it has tentacles. it
becomes an octopus. but I would grieve you as never a woman so complete while
reasoning many will worship you. so much fluff. we dived into anguish. while attached
to lovers. but we tried we agreed we kept coming back. I was selected, while it
felt goodness, as it would blossom such undercurrents. you were neat or
compelled such science where agony was its remorse. I didn’t know love, you
were like of a kind, while suffering such abuse. the fragments as they cry the
vulture as it soars while a man must take so much for granted: those days so
alone or but a queen while wildness is treasure or keys. we never tried
exclusivity, it didn’t seem reality, such sullen/ecstatic souls. too much to
sustain too angry to be civilized or too dismissive to feel others. such mirrors
as addicted to the rush while overloaded by others: their remnants their
damages while we were neatly functional. such a pristine temple such aesthetic
features where our souls might awaken. such cedar pigeons or oaken sap to kneel
near an ant fortress. it seems impossible to capture beauty. something with us
until we damage it. it seems too idyllic to understand. if to put it in worlds
as opposed to allusions while dying seemed so irrelevant: where some feel
death, but pain was sweet heaven, while absence seems too cruel; the misery of
the king, the agony of the queen, or the death of the jester.
