Oh Love, I writhe in hell. There you are, so imaginary. A guileless man, and I lie. I need a particular desolation, gods, goddesses and dreams. Nevertheless, moonshine Wednesdays, somber Fridays, regrouping on Sundays. Too many years between us, too much pain, to watch variations of one person. Thrown to miracles. Climbing ice. I was at a loss of language. It was ruined dice, a gamble, and it never mattered—the fever of intensity, an overarching arc, ontic woes, noetic charms. The particular is what I was told; the abstract is what I know. We frown on metaphysics, such a riddle, and then we use the intangible. I never understand us. A righteous soul, and I lie. Oh Love, the darkness was refuge—demanding of depth, driving the particular. Such coldness, as it departs, to rhythm into sunlight. Such radical pain; such threshing pleasure. Roses. The eye of the needle. I squint at gnats. So many mind dimensions; so many compartments. So much loving, to then leave. Always rushing. I wasn’t certain of the vision, Love. To live Fire & Desire; to make it feel alright, despite something kneading rain, stirring emotion, angelizing imperfection; for we all come apart: we all try to bounce back. And Love is castling, now positioned, becoming quite powerful.
