The magic becomes sunny. The privilege is prideful. To have adored some measure, if dying meant reliving. One last chance to perish; one last dream to chase. Love is in bone structure: shoulders, ribs, hips. If to mention legs, if to esteem buttocks. I know Love has kissed unto orgasm; in asking for more; realizing we may never become first experience—so bad a scream, encouraged to die for it, begging and groveling to Infinity. Categorical sunshine, sweaty nape, a neck by what it desires. I know Love has given all in her pursuits, to live for passions, chided by an inner ghost, pleading it comes but once in a life time. If not, souls are flabbergasted, resistant to freshets inside—yearning for freedoms, if to adore once more. (I would like to get closer to actuality, to unveil what it looks like, (I believe two people are experiencing two different realities)—the sun is witness, a thousand years getting it right.) The problem is biblic, such nebulosity, to feel Love is painful. Days growing stronger, destroying the best of jazz, unsealed and released to spirits. How offal it could become? How beautiful the chase inside? Love in essence—to muse upon incompleteness, soaring powers, such queenship, prowess of madness.
