we
might sink or float our lungs filled by liaisons. so close to you or too apart
from you, it seems to cause more problems. I look at mirrors or braid ropes or
tug a horsetail; it seems nice to feel sad, or anxious to feel joy, with so
much to learn. I unravel soul. we see gems or padlocks. we desire a few note-keys.
something
inconsequential, an all day thought, where realities speak poetry: those tragic
gates, our nights reviewing, or courage to trust a stranger. such raw diaries,
or cadent essence while a chance is an adventure.
I met
a man, he was sullen, he just broke with his girlfriend. his wife noticed, so,
she asked, “Why are you gloomy? You seem human again. Did she leave you?”
we never know aqueducts, something a soul harbors, while we heal through mates.
I walk
our edges I prune our hedges I would pause at your garden. those Zen zinnias those
jasmine jamesias or dear intentionality; by chance to appear or deliberate to
shadows as renewed in sensing your life; such lofty ideals such idyllic choices,
if to live, decided, or sit at dinner.
sidewalk pronunciation. “Indeed, he loves you.” but I sound negative.
it
kills to know in life such phantoms while needing to be revelation. we seem by difficulty,
as seeing our dreams, with little want towards resolution. I watch where
closeness is its miracle, where it’s deliberate—those acts, one’s body, one’s
desperation!
too
much darkness, while I love you, while I adore your desperation.
