I don’t
love you in a sense. I need you in a sense. so many manuscripts. there is
indebtedness or debt as souls become elusive. the main canal as channeled such
texture in an apricot. our mind-storage, the highway to bliss, while most
suffer from deficits. your speech is flawless. your intonation is excellence.
it would be unrighteous for addicts. by menu to pick a style as hats rotate
into darkness. our departure was resistant
or materialization so dialectical—where minds often meet for lunch. I review thoughts or converse with
invisibility while inscriptions/concrete is in glass: the future of the
psychopath, the remorse of the sociopath, or the rehabilitation of pathological
liars. such finance in restoration,
such sweet illumination, or detailed debilitation. it was fevering those nights,
or pure escape such an emotional rush: our innocence our sober nature but you
held secrets: the fire of the blunt, the feeling of cocaine, the inrush of
sexual comforts. at times, the scowl infuriated
or
anxieties in puddles.
so
bitten to bone, so banished from banality, such precious irritability. or sad
at seconds, too low to reach, where we lay in utter silence: those vocal walls,
those black curtains, the fer-de-lance resting in sorrow.
I don’t
have us in a sense. I have become an arrogant creature. I still possess
compassion. so tried in trueness as excellent butterflies where a dahlia is
sweet candy.
falling
into earth. or capitalizing science. some peculiar species. upon a langur such languishing or some
unfit language: the fire of the bone, or fury of the rose, while so much has
gone on by.
