Just a fantast at times. Listening to wants, eager over desires. Different auras, achy contours. Love is a bad ass woman. We take much for granted. And everything is dying. To graves in life, whispering names, breathless, a memory. I was remembering you, seeping into a thought, I imagine two people make perfection of character. Each chair is different. Each arm has limited reach. We accept dearth; we increase yearning. It was laughs at self, to believe I was affected deeply—winning charms, touched in soil, jilted inside, moving through traffic, it’s wrong, but I lit a cigarette. Over a spirit, confined to disasters, loving like chameleons, harlequins off of gin. Indeed, a half-shrug—until it reaches. Love is a bad ass magician. They call it chi; yes, making horderves—to lace life, a man watches. Hands form elasticity, flying with cares, a price as paid—to engender such cost. If only complete staticity, disruptive mornings, asking daft questions, insecurity seeping in. Love has an effect on psyches—all characteristics mastered, easily angered. Never upon eggshells, not her well-beloved. Toe-to-toe at it. And many roses, many tomorrows, lines of prose, scripture at times, wits and realizations. He asks: “Why us?” She looks intently, places her nose on his: “I’d have it no other way.” Closer friends. Closer lovers. Parents and magicians—and it’s all on borrowed time.
