I
want for something lose—to speak of lovers, united in love. I want for us,
to
hell with others, smothered in love. The pash carries, to argue harshly,
and
fall asleep angry; but never you, and bulbous eyes, as brown as khakis.
We’ve
died so often, to never lie, accustomed to grief; and never us—
forever
us—bleeding to live. Is it more a style, to challenge love, the beat
of
yogis? I passion art, to hear for prose, the deepest literature; and more
the
gray, to want for love, and nestle love. I ponder conundrums, to love
your
soul, as pale as surprise; and torn asunder, to kiss your womb, where
others
tread. I pass a douche, and pamper a heart, to love all night. We
die
gently, to move to death, a flood of orgasms. I speak to you, to know
for
women, to filter evasiveness; for sighs are cries, a purple style, to
cringe
for love; and yes to ponder, to feel for love, to take me gently; and
rough
is lust, to take me there, to wait my readiness. I love you afar, to
touch
for close, a bit restrained; and all the more, a velvet queen, dying
softly;
for joy is many, enlove and plural, scorned within; and death our
souls,
to hold a sylph, even a minx. You perish left, to conjure for right,
a
month of tears; and never to lie, a woman of morals, and nearly spent. I
whisper
joys, and grip for life, afraid to lose; and more overt, to ask for
life,
to hell for subtle. I walk it deafly, to hear for words, a bee in bee hive.
