You appear at odd stations. I do not know your miseries, nor motivations, and happiness might be forged in some gray waves. I ponder through a deep scar, to imagine a knitted heart, those channels he made surgery. And holding tightly, releasing loosely—one mended meme, one crooked insulation, and age has continuity to it; you appear with insistence, by mind voltage, a beating chest. Life has been emphatic for seasons,
many moons, those creative goodbyes, holding to one by status—days become self-conscious, those many flickers.
I would not say “courage,” for she wanes; and those first months, such false perfection. To know it dies what it gives, the incessant bleeding, oxygen deceptive before God.
You read with fire smoldering. You dream with a feeling boiling.
The nights with a thought, a silent kiss, put to rest, one scream.
I sense in going further, welts aside codification, while one simmers, to have become life, to have manifested dreams.
One last feeling, to suggest to self, this is the new life; in emotion, to posses one emerald, asking she enter a set of wars. (Those realities between manifests.) So crocheted, so neatly chaotic, so invested. To adore what becomes personal; to oppose what tears at family fabric.
One last assertion, to damn what pursues beyond measure. One actuality, we can’t fathom each other, nor are days closer, left to self, one more war.
