False images; trying to balance love. Feuding with oneself. Asking for clarity. To need a soul to show up for self.
I wonder, and I don’t know. Such surreality. Certain mind conception. In losing, in starting a new diary.
Never quite complete, sacrificing life, fraught by anxiety. Over steaks, like diplomats, forgetting we once loved.
So proud of making sense of those darker regions. Tiger eyes, cheetah paws, surviving by incentive, longing for an unknowable freedom.
I wonder, and I don’t know; dear beliefs, bereft of pieces, fragments jettisoned from the ship. A soul will ignore an ulcer, being strong for another, making existence through another’s being. Her essence is powerful; her memories are vivid; her debate is internal.
Over Dom Perignon, like executives, to forget we loved each other.
Such galloping; mental phantoms; for one to share her inner torments. So many caricatures, to sort through oceans, at a fringe, remembering those eyes.
