When it was good, as they say. So innocent. So moving. Such is a dream come true. It takes a human to love. The victory of compassion. To imagine a spirit, wailing from the lungs. It goes slowly. It has an apex. It hurts like a funny bone. Being in alignment, sequential agony, to want nothing else. Like rawness, like sickness. Absorbed with a rainstorm made innocent—an inverted tenderness, to chance exoneration—for times of old. Like the contrast of a cure, better a flickering cosmos, or better, a blessed curse. To ask, why? To sense an answer. It won’t fall. Tears well up. A face turns red. Eyes become blurry. An apology rages forth. To have brought such uncertainty to stars. Like no other love. Like no greater compassion. To wander hills, to visit valleys, to engage a spirit. It was easy to chance upon a sky. To dream outside a box. To waltz upon a mountain. Walking to each other. The hallway so dark & long. Arms reaching forward. Fingertips feeling for flesh. So fierce. To have located life. So much love it hurts. How could it not be forever? Love is … colorful souls, dearest arguments, disputes, challenges, redemption, richness.
