We know aesthetics; like music made beauty; like dying more attention. It’s never fair, so much it hurts, to kiss & drop a tear. I imagine more than I’ve lived: the depth of passion, where it aches, kills, satisfied by a kiss. I met her by accident. So precious, innocent, lustful, smart. I was a kid back then, impressed, laughing freely, without suspicion. I fell in what I knew as love: so shallow, so deep, too much to suppress. A brilliant lamp, a sickle to esoteria, unsung & dancing. Deathless adrenaline, gnawing inside, pausing for church; seismic art, idyllic anxiety, hoping, wishing, begging it increases. So songlike; such a mesmerizing choir; dearly knotted, pleading inside, it couldn’t be actual—those facts, that blimp, such decorated brushwork; to bounce back, to get closer, to lie when it churns. Lunarias. Iris, Love. Freesias & freedom, if but to die again. Some recipe. Some stranger’s critique. Or bluegrass roots, all night affection, too near to exclude, pure exclusivity, I remember feeling good. One knee, one anchor, one hook. So medieval—like life is a parable, primal, catastrophic emotion. Dear & untold. A dirge into a smile. If only to be destroyed by resurrection. One kiss. One agenda. One death.
