Something strange, we say. Confusion. Longer goodbyes. And it should be more. It should become preoccupation. Such a bench. Such winepresses. A man must trick himself. We find deliberateness. One would have us at a precipice, catapulted into oblivion, never a grunion of affection, proud nonetheless. If we left this space, teasing comfort zones, unleveled, thrown to imperceptibility. Such a novice; this is a chase; in dealing with a spell. Placed at an edge, disputing breaths, arks in
spirit, never caring if it’s feasible, torn by clouds, never eager to surrender. A long run, and never saw it that way, just needing confidence, in giving to one—a need in its exercise. It gets this way, forbidden to gallop freely, a man’s selection, to need in design, if to desire one exclusively. Baffling resilience; before we let go, some tension on earth, cryptic hostility—measuring one’s compass, recomputing one’s career, in dispute with calculations. Such moody souls, one giving little, to
expect accuracy, seems misunderstood. And Love is living with it, as it gives life, so sullen, such malaise, such purpose, as unfulfilled direly. Pointing at something convoluting; to see some threading in humans—to adore like one lasting breath, to soar with flames churning, an affection made immortal; indeed, life to life chasing like spirits, as it never was over yonder, sheer affectation, a need for certainty, at fire with a soul, one carrying irresistibility for others.
