It matters more, torn asunder, it becomes normality—notions are opposed. We try our lungs at love, our arteries at rituals. (Energy does something. Never presumed a given space!) Standing closer, more questions, teased and destroyed by perception. Needed more time, I suppose—souls spend essence getting it right, to a subtle and overt detriment to love. (It was torture to undergo it. In hindsight, it gave life. So great an illusion; so potent a river, to pour into baptism.) Been working at a mind’s wharf, so eloquent, too succinct, we unstable one another. Such a smile, years in its perfection, therapy driven, never fully fathomed it; measured in silence, perfected by whetstones, hated and loved, we might laugh it off. Beautiful bright begonias, if to adorn absolute roses—over a cold sandwich and pomegranate juice, glaring, giggling, eyes watering with joy. Sometimes banter stings. To show little remorse, to push further, unto a solemn moment. Buried in features. Making preparations for the existential. Too much is never enough. Furled brows. A reptilian stare. Asking specific questions. Love is ever under scrutiny, sincere and durable doubts. So hard on one point. So easy to believe. (Despite human activity.) Lord be witness between us; let the myrtle tree sign the declaration. (It was ocean blues when it struck. I suppose a woman smiles to feel irresistible. Maybe a tear for the fallen. If to hold with fever those sheets aside longer life.)
