We never die, a theory in skies, so concrete inside—not
necessarily true; days with blues, suddenly feeling true grit, sullen becomes
normal. Love excites souls, styles made on purpose, I keep losing cadence. Love
makes reality, senses controlled, evoked, with one feeling unidentifiable. I
won an emotion, won more distinction, one remaining obscure, made vague,
flickering over ember—California loses, bigger behaviors, looking in her
direction; so cold back then, so warm lately, still charged to behave—to keep
science close to acres—and dying becomes illusion. Love is understated,
cherished by life, given sin exoneration—morphing into energies. I never
understand, some part hurting, how we adore to feel that way. At asphalt in
tongues, sensing a pencil moving, at my mind to sway into distant pash; so
infatuated back then, so enlove aching, fretting those eyes.
