The aesthetic of the curse. The moon conscious of its sun. The chase, as it isn’t. The faith in one, as a religious. So lost in hemispheres, alluring neurotransmitters, so many clogs—a few whispers, stepping away from one’s mirror.
I saw her as death was heaving. I approached; a spirit creeped. I touched her hand, it bounced. The fever to speak, the legacy of the punishment, so great the flippancy.
Indeed, I make it about love. It has roots in chaos. The pain the glory the misery—to launch into orbit. To travel each comet, mad they counted us in.
I was unsure of the dynamics, the inner chase, the ultimate need.
It means much: as meaning becomes distorted by intentionality.
I would be a grave of a man, falling by one’s honor, to have one proud to have magic. Too much reading; too tremendous the yearning—where a man must fabricate existence.
Does it become anything I imagine it to be; nay, one would label me swiftly. A little fun, to imagine souls infusing each other, dwelling in each other, the great discrepancy.
The two becoming one might have connotations attached to it.
