In meeting you, I noticed pieces of time—measures of curiosity, to find art slain beautifully. In meeting you, I desired to write better, to impress the you in me. In meeting you, it wasn’t immediate, as young adults, it was gradual, and then, too late. Most seek spontaneity, an instant spark, nothing considered, aside for pure magnetism. In meeting you, I learned the best in myself, the worlds in bubbles, to incompleteness coming in nonchalance. (I often wonder how you treat an interest, someone you fancy.) In meeting you, I see bias, albeit, in its best picture, lost as I am in meeting you. In meeting you, I see mysticism, your darts are powerful, and I see why you cater to certain temperaments. They don’t care about intrusion. They trespass. They make for self-consciousness. (In turn, most try to appease them, to win their approval.) In meeting you, I see imagination, by feeling its touch, by disappointing ambition. In meeting you, I ate indifference, walked right-side-up, bent my pride, and was most eager; each word is a penalty—souls are critical—to say it here, is for it to happen there—each experience has been attacked (one might wonder, but one put self in a situation). In meeting you, I know what love isn’t, never knowing completely—what love is, realizing, it has just begun.
