I can’t be hopeless. To tingle at a voice. Wondering of love shared. Radicalized. Heaving heavily. Such excruciating joys, daring not to call pain happiness. The author veers off, poking at love’s veneer. Told to behave; sheer letters, alphabetical passions—to follow ordination. Love requires itself, feeding on sky hopes, determined to flights. I enter a zone, climb out of a vortex, tender showers, cursed, swooshing through freedoms. Amazed by emotions, still acting asinine. Too many concerned, let love make its privacy. I fantasize; descending clouds—love withstands itself. Creative rulings; through uncertainty; knowing ideals are part reachable, part a trap—makes for partial allegiance, so wrapped in what we do. Such a paradoxical soul; such uncouth rulings. Trying to steer self; stirred—as it were: knowing behavior, knowing wilder weather, catching vibes. To take to motion, sheer quintessence, arguing back and forth. Those few months—composed of history, containing existence, excitement, deep rooted laughter. When I approach—talking smack, to return banter, catching an attitude. Such devotionals; so lethargic at moments, too vulnerable to leave Rome—reaching, demanding, as if we forgot a lasting ache. To cherish a lucky feeling, so much dying, to get it back is like trekking hells; to touch with meaning, to agonize over something inconsequential, to pull up aside imagination.
