Life is love, innuendos, discretion & imperfections. In admiring Love, holding back from Love, I got to meet Love. She is self-conscious, watching herself, subtle insecurities, science of a scent. I
have watched myself, seeing her response, the way it moves life. And loving affectation, trekking the great bridge, arriving late, asking for refilming. Some interior cinema, wading through seas,
outliving ourselves. Cupid cries, begging Love, arts under-siege. To have met you, dreaming as we do, made perfect in imperception. To say something consequential, kneeling by suppositions,
passion while it wrangles. By fierceness, thunder inside, days are filled by hertz. To plead with a shadow, imprinted by anima, fretting the great darkness. It was magic meeting you, it was casual
glances, aggressive intangibility, leading to discontent & conscienceness. You take the helm, reaching for heights, cosmos & winds. It was easy ignoring rites, it was hell to renegotiate
passions, it was laughter to see such stumbling. I wish for perfection, the one in silence, an art in the rain it sips.
