with needs to admire her, comes
concerns to adore her, in a small pond with eyes wide opened. we leave one
space, enter another space, and spend all day explaining spaces; quite
metaphysical, quite alarming, much density involved. in the behavior we find
the person, speech is unclear, most everything is deceptive. Love is aesthetic,
as in bodily appearance, preference, and style. a man is wrong on many points, if he says
it or not, and if he dwells on it for too long. seems difficult to see her, proved
as it were, not to mention the movement, nor sing the praise. a man is so
shallow, as to adore what was provided, where she needs the admiration; some
strange curse, damned if he praises her, and condemned for not praising
her. so steep in shrapnel, so
strained in speech; so teased by terrors, most terrific the tragedy; in the
reception of the recovery, one realizes—it was all flattery; so feral in pain,
so polite as thankful, so conflicted and losing patience.
there’s rumbling inside, wrestling
inside, deeper concentration, and emotion held hostage; experience trumps
trajectory, actual conversation trumps conjecture, and bodies in motion
outweighs probability; most know these things, as they exist, while we hardly
keep things in mind. such mindful realities, nonsensical elaboration, and we
forget what we look like.
