I hear it said, “I
love for keeps.” Cherries and ashes, apricots and wines, burgundy and grapes;
to hit hearts, to beckon supernatural fire, to be a ladybug on a leaf; sheer
majesty, to becoming Church, to fret and feel as time exposes weakness—made strength,
so aloof to his own dedications. One measures an apparatus, framing appetites,
more pride in friendship than lover—selfsame person. Love is two measures,
unforgiving, nay, forgiving, with souls opting on sensation. I hear it said, “What’s
good for the goose is good for the gander.” Another might sense in others a
weakness, prompted by lack, to realize many will not put life on pause. I admire
sacrifice, to exhaust a relationship, to do all to stand. So easy, so hard, as
to walk towards an exit, to again try an adventure, if self is problem, to
again face a mirror. What means life? I trade in authenticity for ego. I manage
to vitiate everything humanity delivers. I fly redundancy.
