Rummaging
through an old project, I came across an ancient sensation, palming moonstone;
a certain type of zeal, souls fretting each breath, something numen in the
coffee. I have much in horizons, a rainbow offers a promise, a cute friend, in
a dungeon, celebrating each climax. It isn’t epic, maybe autobiographical,
maybe a second page in a memoir—Love as twine in me, some puppeteer, off
further, in the distance, sits a ventriloquist. The best feel alone, the worse
are filming courage, so much, it hurts, it feels terrific, a man is a ghost, a
woman is a spirit, praise might come naturally: mink words, deeper insouciance,
born to uneasiness—reborn and whipped, thawed-out and seasoned, or laid over
salad mixed with Ranch Dressing. But Love is different in sameness—a similar
chase, cheetah paws, ravishing, scratching, stretching flesh; no fibbing, so
chafe, gunning at noon, rushing through traffic, like a pet-bull with rabies;
each twinge must die, each inclination subdued, every soul will suffer like
never imagined. But Love is terrific, mourning in atmospheres, a fool with
paper and ink—upon otic winds, flushed inside, wingspan sweeping spirits by
flames—a beaming torch, to have lost a friend, to live for unsaid friend. I
never touched her hand. She lingers in thought-matter. I will never hear her
debate life.
