I wish love was simple—complex
life, guitars, winds, putting pain first; hurting to prove my point, to become
felt in its moment, adrift at times, reaching for sociality and chimes. Rethinking
love, its maxims, its ultimate dedication—as flown into injustice, asking dependencies,
with love facing itself; asking forbidden messages, made desperate in song,
thetic in design, love becomes its antithesis; it flames with action, it dines
with fury, it claims what it desires, never to own what it loves; to adore
skies, to freefall into arms, most intolerant passion; aching to exist, to
become ontology, cosmic, existential, with much waiting in deserts—fire of
importance, aborted from love, half way deceased. I wish love was simple—complex
stars, too far away, if to need a thought, to be in tears, hoping it’s felt,
one dear at manipulation, thus, uneasy; so blind, so complicated, needy, if to
dream of a perfect anxiety.
