Loving us is privilege also difficult the way we
praise surprises. I was a ghost those years, never appearing, in plain sight,
invisible again the pain it hurts sensories. I see body—ass, hips, torso,
breasts, hair, cages aching, toes painted in acrylics. I remember a soul in us,
trust fund passion, alchemy and blood—to drip from intensity, a man wishes to
destroy compassion, a long walk, delivered to reality. Maybe we die together. Maybe
we love like phantoms. Just maybe we make it work. Thinking over yonder, trying
to hold court, Love is nude, screaming, the scene is cynic. Needing belief.
Asking for patience. A man will adore in midst of losing. Loving us has been
glorious, waving in seas, looking and touching and begging for mercy—so desperately
ignored. Sober thoughts. Wilder flowers. The desert was beautiful.
