Each notion spells her name. Each
syllable makes for fiction. Loving became science: a smaller gesture, a grand
response, making music the voicebox(es). Buried by Infatuation, to have sin in
one life, battered by beauty. Angelic scar, made harsher than terrors, so
smooth I’d expect. As addicted creatures, yearning to be an ideal, with little
respect for dying—by deaths to have won hearts. Divinity lights, coarse
whispers, auditory intestines; to have adored what hurts, such benign beginnings,
to have lied so often. Was I right in wrong a song splayed and never existed? To
achieve passion, longing in disappearance, to realize, it has no ending point. “Let
us know her name!” Indeed, memoirs will flourish, diaries with madness stories,
most will say, “He was a saga man.” Darkness envelopes skies, let there be
light, as it rumors in minds—value of the unforgiven.
