Could’ve been aborted. I assert: It was never a consideration. I assert, I said. I move through mountains, I adore the
Bulwark, sober at it, lasting at it, restricted at it. Lost too much to get it
back—more in eyes, looking into mirrors, what in God am I seeing? Never knew
you, desired you, looking at a contour—those fingers, those wrists, those hands—a
smile on a feudal glimpse, at Malibu instincts, spelling insanity, cleaving to
sanity, many hoping in reverse—the penalty of the design, a woman has induced skies,
with Jesus looking, “Maintain faith!” It seems correct, to know something askew,
as it offsets the agenda—so sour with you, so enlove with the manifest, at a
few in memories—a second on passion, it was hell getting close, it was science
to last so long. All we wanted, all we craved, it keeps a distance, I wish I was
different.
