Eyes water inapparently, Love across cities, a chuckle
at her magic. I was dead last year—I was 50%, so aloof to my mirror. There was
a deceased soul, shouldn’t have crossed game, like a hearse moving invisibly.
Love claimed a soldier, couldn’t keep legit, needing like seven to get right. I
was dead to you, I’d adore you, if it wasn’t so damn sick. I have a problem, I attack,
to realize, Love might be a good wife. The movie life, taking it up with God,
longing to get right. I was damaged, I passed it on, sipping raw liquor. It dies
in us, it will never be shared, and once again, I must outlive disdain. So
impossible, if one was reasonable, shoes laced by nine. Losing a percentage of
self, asking for mercy, like a hungry dog; facial feelings, he watched, I knew
he was a therapist. Like damn the meaning, needing to knead Jesus, Love was
sick as a lunatic.
