I’m running out of time. Life is short. It feels like a diagonal curse. I was with desire those years, filled with lust those years, as it was intended. Concupiscence died; with life most critical. Too many bullshit ass games. Too many categorical wounds. Museum minded; lasciviousness became aesthetics; appreciating rareness, even energies, standing accused of ascetism. Walking by—devastated by elitism, wondering how Love might exist, so incautious with her, probing idiosyncrasies … craving to win unconditional affection, deft at moments, wild at seconds, asking that others disappear, indeed, a caveman. Those intuitive gazes, incredible astuteness, to seem passé, if a man desires more than sex. Accustomed to feeling displaced, needing something barely treasured, those lines as we grow, those tears for Labradors. So many paw prints, skyscraping, returning nightly, seriously underrated. I might wax poetic in seeing her. I might say all things, and never mention love. We might presume adoration, laugh at the Simpsons, eating a bag of Doritos. In human need; in vanishing to a moment; to assume all currents—flippant in spirit, angry as hell—if it goes sour. Years to become privileged. Disputing politics. Knowing what freedom sounds like. Honestly, semi-crazed, adoring with passions, alive to feel Love.
