Breakfast was silent; watching self, eyes garden into a future. To need what comes, to erase what was, to believe in souls. A different type of dying. To see patterns. To dye reality. Only a best friend will forgive you. And if I were captain, I’d pick you in first draft. Brooding has been pivotal: no need in confiding in iron. To have loved, as it presumes itself, while behaviors are automatic. Taught to receive. Taught to aggrandize. Tortured by beauty.
Loving you is a project. It shouldn’t be tetras. Adoring is adrenaline pains, a portal, Love, like begging ten minutes before earth implodes. Our days alike to gods, akin to goddesses. Such Greek tragedies.
I was sicker. I asked for it; a silent ruby, those tan eyes, assailing hips, accustomed smiles, a deeper consciousness—so alert, measuring each second, and I never confessed much. Just a hint to it—an inner world, filled with beliefs, never vetted, never unsolicited. I met an unbelief—diamonds in stars, morbid miseries, hugged close, a tear fell. So smooth at moments, she isn’t trying; certain chemistry, Korean eye gloss, Hollywood pride. I haven’t forgotten much. I aim to fix much. It requires one tender discussion. Souls are warm, needing one signature.
