I don’t understand a feeling inside seeking what it
presumes to possess; chasing meals, eating in despair, filled with happiness;
one tear in fall, one smile in winter, one escapade inside of helium. Assuming pleasures.
Afforded great sorrow. The joy of the miracle, in which the ecstasy fell. I can’t
eat. I rub the top of my scalp. I claim the last of love’s heartbeats. Would I need
more? Have I felt it in totality? Was it the deficit, the dearth, the presence,
as it failed its successors? I wander
islands on a land filled with chemistry—looking like misery, overwhelmed by aesthetic,
killing innocence, searching for sincerity—as it bends corners, not at all
friendly, just honest; to have deeper memories, visceral dreams, violent
emotion. Some grandiose crisis—shaving my garden, too aloof to claim ecstasy:
so easy to have love, as it fits compartments, as it satisfies society.
