Like a vision it probes—a subtle expression. Love has mastered subtleties. I perish with each one. It was never our luxury—sable honest eyes, affectionate pains. Each hurt running deeper. I throw the word around too loosely. At points, beauty aches, either present, or a feeling as if a dearth. I imagine rain pouring on a summer’s day – roses sprouting on a decent gray – something hampering light. It never registers. We might expect emotion, crazed by karma, asking permission to strike a nerve. It was never in me to dance that shadow. It was ever with me to salute light, to rage over thunder. Each with affectation. Each with prowess. Each with etiquette. So unique; so intricate. I suspect in being gentle one can be indelicate. A deep truth. I have loved a mirage, raved over a passing glance, angered souls right afore time. A theft in me. A clown’s fever. I see riven souls; I battle reaction to a scar. Honestly, we make it work. It doesn’t just work. A song I’ve longed for; in knowing dreams, in getting closer, ever asking for privilege—such dynamite, euphonic charms, on a specific wavelength. First granted entrance, a wild escapade, endless apexes—soul of calamities. To envision eternity, as it frets itself, to have exaggerated its promise. Only if it feels like pain; some choice by arms; to have loved in private.
