Nothing expresses rain; thus, it’s never satisfied; thus, noose music, affectionate ghosts, one ego chime. To imagine feelings, so obscure, buckets of tears, to water gardens, wilder appetites. Something drives beyond capacity. Something remains disappointed. It seems unfair. The way we try harder. Or just carried from scene to voyage. In feeling full, to emotional loneness, asking for closeness, desiring distance. Such a radiant contradiction: ever pleading, never ready … filthy coldness. Estranged from the motion of hands. Anything lately is called love. Wondering if intestines match ideals. Some parts truly ache in distrust. With Love appearing, wintry fall, cadence and hertz. The lies I feed fantasy. Aware, therefore, low; captured by ambition. We might seclude in silence, knowing another’s pain, still with our course: what type of persons are we? I have a serious problem: I can’t accept a definition for love. “You’ll know it.”
I imagine true love is excruciating, abandoned to vulnerability, if unthought, it isn’t favored as love. If full of comforts, never analyzed, what are we calling it?
We deviated. Nothing is good enough. Nothing exhausts the urge. Such need; looking at one, to imagine equality, sameness of displeasure, radicalized sensation, unbearable draperies.
