I have no idea. Life is in motion. I fret feeling left behind.
Making essence like scribes. Fiending in private. Nearly what seems stigmatized.
I impassioned an emotion; I felt drizzle, imprints, mind-paws. I have come to terms with it: I do not know what love is in totality. It seems like constant perfection to keep it; it seems crazy to lose it; it feels embarrassing to feel vulnerable.
I ponder how two adore—such pangs, such depth of frustration.
I’ll ever love her: such imperfect souls; it seems appropriate—as to invest in one—each breeze feeling like upheaval.
Let others be what makes sense to them.
I could not fathom such a sweeping. It was heart magic, mind mysticism. It trained pieces of the dying. I keep asking my mirror: What is love?
I keep stumbling through answers.
It seems undervalued. I desire such piety, indeed, a foolish need. Hours over dreams. Skin sweat.
Such an amazing life: sunny days full of winter: autumn and foliage.
