I wasn’t
awake when we met. I knew it was Greece or Europe or rebellion. We couldn’t
speak, as awkwardness, or predisposition, or plain to charged by our own
presence. I admired your soul. It hung at your chest. Much more than pure
physicality. A benthic mind after much reading such neat penmanship. As playing
it by rules, mad at others, while trying to live carefree. So little around
daisies such nectar at gardens so athletic as a sapling. But we want to hear
affection or sophistication while experience remains similar. By richness of
global art or museums in mountains such mudslides seeming metaphorical. Some
trope we design such pith in auras a dance with wolves. So egotistical so
independent such as trying to escape the Grand Deception. It arrived. We may
have seen it. Or low enough to pride the pain. I grief through mother or haggle
over circumstance where unless beautiful, people say words are too harsh. I
never saw professionality as it becomes ideographic at some postmodern soul. Everything
was about Enlightenment. Spirits were chancing rebellion. The churches were
losing to science. Indeed, we might see cohesiveness, coagulation, or Religion
subsuming Empiricism. Years are cadence or soft angels at petals meant to
distract pain. As furious creatures roaming Islands to find our Pacific. Oceans
with whales or classrooms with cheetahs, or a soul carrying a lioness-gila-monster.
If but to sing at some rooftop asking forgiveness for all I might do. But we
want to hear affection or tender-rooted-sorrowful eyes. It becomes blasé to
suggest a person is in pain – this is something as a given! But what type of
pain: Existential, Pragmatic, Inner Turmoil, Pathetic Tragedy, Based in Gender,
Familial, All the Above, or something probing, where life is decent, but
genetics have cursed a pretty good person? mental-software-physics. or
sky-basement-passions. at gravity resisting its imposition. But a good person
in a good county reasoning with a good man. Indeed, something is to that, those
words have an odor, it sounds like one is not happy. If to fly daily like
landing in bliss, I could love like nothing else has existence. Our growth
through tragedies. Our longing through havens. Our performance for an abstract
audience. I can’t tablecloth love or
sweeten displeasures while every time we touch, we desire fireworks. Such a
mind-tap. It seems so crazy. I judge based in what I feel. So
disparate and so alike where what I need, they desire also.
I want to say, I adore
more in you than what I’ve found in skies. My nerves are heaving I taste nausea
but it’s me hassling interior. So I pull away. It might subside. But it feels
ontic. Some loving ontology, certain angst, while to receive brings more
unclarity. I fret a hornet I tap a wire I feel life is quite gymnastic. The
rage simmers I surrender to feelings it’s quite sad beauty. Those camps ablaze
inside mental pantheon aside a creature I will never marry. If hurting is
beauty, our hurting is center stage, while we would never be happy. So
sickening – in one truth – I wanted one more belonging to another.
