I should never wither, feeling wilted, blessed on one point, cursed as a gift.
I bled early on, I made intimacy at twelve, lost to California, loving the seas.
Years off. Watching silence. With the world flogging.
It was easy to pass away, it was hard to resuscitate, most felt justified.
I trip off it, a soul held a twenty-year grudge, and never knew the person was manic.
Love has design, percentage, we’re complex.
I should apologize, in dealing with science, in all honesty, how to deliver words?
We sense mechanics, we look for authenticity, we need to see some struggle.
With life coming into focus, with meaning seeming out of reach, with Love at some perspective.
Big Picture debt. Ventriloquist pains.
Such pantomime years … walking into a cave.
So easy to walk away—unless non-permitted.
Love will never know, those bent corners, a flurry of fantasies.
So filled, eating osmosis, spirit flaming—it meant much, soul eclipsed.
Love isn’t that sense, still compelling, ants form hills.
It saddens to understand absence, to know it aches, so bleak, such reality, if necessitated, one might appear.
Years at it, getting better with seduction, too late.
Maybe on infusion, a dream we suggest, still some strange element … reading scrolls, trekking Dead Seas,
the river is filled with sand.
