I catch chills upon mention of a name. Steep into silhouettes, searching pictographs, silent, like nothing hurts. Each canvas holding potential, rewriting brains, inner atmosphere splayed across skies. I’ve adored what I can never have. I’ve worship God begging forgiveness. To have loved like wildness, upon a curse, sin tasting marvelous. A soul as it lives; a spirit as it dies; looking at you has become quite painful. A round of infatuation, a grimace to dispel, a few years of fantasies—filled with passion, fraught by liquids, asking in a dream for permission to cry. All sorts of ailments. All sorts of deliverance. If untold, longing in shadows, a kiss would exhilarate illusion. To lie to myself, to imagine a perfect person, so much in my favor. By sweetness of sweat, by dripping cisterns, to have located deaths—smaller increments, beautiful panic, an inner seaquake. Let’s believe—a few are making incredible passion; let’s believe—it never dies; indeed, let’s believe to continue existence. You’re out of heaven, a dear performance, prurient & in control. It comes by nature, cellos for candor, excellence seeming easy; faced in an edifice, a soul rebuilt, years at dying gracefully.
