you
hear her eyes, you understand her soul, it seems days are shorter—rushing into
graves, just married at the church, eating pomegranates.
doing
life in bubbles, growing dandelions, so neat in pictorial pains.
by
a face, hearing a banshee, tossing in circles.
such
taste in minds, such bodies in winds, many auras in one person, several hats,
seduction, both parts, to live like life is better.
you
have mercy. you paint mansions. you believe in her.
you
notice pride, peace, palatial anxieties—art as it unfolds, never a given
direction, myriad emotions—a queen in quicksand, watered miseries, sprouting
buds—so sickened to see it, her dying is most horrific, too many horrors; by a
quilt made of silk, sullen, so low, grieving reality, some creature inside,
some mental genetic storm—to exhaust language, to frame a ghost, too close,
making love, her face dying, her gut screaming, orgasmic sorrows.
you
feel life. you sail gratitude. you can never be satisfied—worrying in mirages,
gunning across deserts, fretting at a scene—made of diamonds, bleeding liquids,
cascading rubies—so cursed, such goodness, never an attempt to ruin pain.
you
strew seeds of warmth, understanding, you try so hard—she loves your heart, she
desires your taste, she climaxes in dreams—so much her ache, so dear to her
voicebox, so much anger between you two—experiencing each memory, loving each
wraith, a tent right above endeavor.
