I can’t emote it; to imagine putting self in a kiln,
to sing when sorrow hits: a sad poet, electric cries, feeling goodness to a
tear. I can’t feign it; emotion becoming boulders, aphorisms seeming like sin. I
think about it, death creeping slowly, trying to outlive it, spatial reality,
seething unnecessarily. With taller tales, bodily responses, I can’t confront
it.
To adore must be pure, sincere, beyond calculation:
irrational, to have loved with wholeness, cosmology inside.
Sacred nonhumanness.
Unsacred holiness.
To seek a decision, made vital, to celebrate an existence:
hardcore fundamentals, needing classification, much better with love brewing.
I can’t emote it. It must be natural.
She remains in atmosphere—sparking cosmos, falling into
a sensorium.
I can’t say whatness of eternity—to cherish beyond
understanding, such a person must be healthy: the greatest apex is the boldest
caring, with memories filling existence.
Thatness of character, a sullen nature, smiling with
joys, at life struggling nonidentity, sure identified, warmth easily passed
along.
To mean little in muchness as it plagues, to probe
interior dynasty.
I don’t understand like I need to understand. Love is
uncanny, nautical, gods and goddesses. I don’t know what to say about
infatuation verses true love, adoration. They seem similar.
To have a vision with me, all day at times, without
another sensation, this can’t be love.
Consumed at moments, in trance-fantasy, with doubts
correcting inclination, this might be love.
Pages inside. Carnivals with clowns, sad harlequins. More
to treasure the dearth than the presence; in sensing what’s with me, I sense
what I don’t fathom.
This becomes yearning.
