The freedom of those eyes. Such majestic sylvans. I was thinking. I know I’m a dreamer. Such compelling wilderness. Such innocent guilt. The other times, those antique scars, the memory I would have. So much warmth as it flies, as it hits a heart, such rapture. I’ve met you, some dance, unable to depict emotion, to reach feelings, to giggle while it churns. I portrait a new settee, so inclined to seek Elizabeth, asking more for complete novellas, so untrue, those wild thorns, to have adored as in passing. So affected by what we call love, wrestling with that, compelled as others, such belief in freedom. False closure, lying to self, feeling excited in the lie. To have watched as another writhed; like drinking kerosene, like eating ash, hoping Love is with solace. Boxed priorities, life on a back burner, so much invested in the legacy. So many facial snippets, affected and laughing, to feel goodness, to realize—it would never exhaust the odds. To imagine the one at aches, at heart, to have been when the world was oblivious. But it’s realness, it cuts bone, if honest—life might outwit resurrection. Vienna poetry, Creole cooking, if to die with us, if to have that one lie, to pass with a smile. I was thinking forever, she was thinking eternity, we were sick with illusions.
