To feel new. To become as if virginity. Such determined souls. I was with pash, so isolated. Each mile a whetstone. Each spirit, uncaged. Lucent pearls. Fragrant auras. Loving you seems innocent, carefree, to have understood wants and desires. Such casual creatures, some underscore, sorting
through underbrush—if angels were clearer. To know psyches, to hate resistance, to have proved excellence. (Indeed! Never listen to a poet. Never confide in one’s species.) I do jest; a soul looking for redemption, rereading atmosphere, coloring thoughts, palming mind calligraphy—those sins
seem indelible. To feel new. To dance like no others. To let hair fall, touched by wilderness. A man to his transgression, a woman to her breakthroughs; so many paws, such cosmic changing, a soul
on pause like Nintendo. Many trials. Many blessings. We presume a spirit is built a certain way, for intentionality is sketchy. And Love lights up fireworks, to chance determination, upon a whisper, captivated by irony, threshed by seasons. Life is waiting to make suggestions. I tell a tale
of romance being hard to capture, despite, intimate union. If ever those gallicas—to know self, confused by cravings, spatial at moments, to fret over delicate science. I should ask … to play cello—something keeps dying, deprived of what others enjoy … trauma is an intimate force.
