the mathematics of romance, tender
violence, visceral passion. loving you was serious, found uneasy, certain
rejection—loving, notwithstanding. much left unstated, many bees, much honey; a
man to his fears, like a rabid fox, chased without mercy. the sports we create,
love becomes a carnival, things we never confess. by inmost feelings, having
you inside, like a sixth sense. maybe we dissolve easily. not at all quite
certain. maybe we carry a flicker—but can’t oblige.
the algorithm of satiation, like a
starving tabby, at a feast of fancies. loving you was easy, an old calling, a
predestined attraction. loving you was hard, a new dilemma, like carrying a
dozen metals. the fight inside, erasing indelible memories, like a man pushing
a brick wall. another might giggle, he has never been captured, as to imagine
un-withering lovemaking; souls engulfed, hearts thumping, as two are infuriated
by each other.
fantasy must die softly, the gentle
disappointment, the harsh observer; as an inward cartoon, making light of
atrophy—the slow decay of romance. as it lives, a decent human, a perpetual
soul, too delicate to chase indecision. needing comfort, prestige, the
symbolism of the kingdom.
