The wiles of Love, the prowess, another addiction: solid gold. Athirst for heaven. Peeling back the mind cage. Love is fierce. We wonder after the facts; eye-to-eye, toe-to-toe, filmed on the inside. I can’t help but reminisce—craving for those first six sentences. (It really means a lot, in meaning so little; it becomes expression, once ostracized. We say, “I’m doing it.” (We’re adjusting at best.)) I never complain, it seems unimportant, plus, it frets the brains. I knew Love had it. She wouldn’t claim it. Love is ecstasy. The issue is this, in requiring much, it takes much for what one requires. A simple expression: imagine loving where you see nothing else but the beloved. I’d save us the rain. In seeing Love, in determining her depth, knowing what she gives, one is alike to God, in one force, jealous for her love. (They wonder why some are pure rawness, constantly going for it; they wonder why some live life; they don’t care about losing, it’s part of the show.) In adoring by one sight, says something about the capacity to love; indeed, it speaks to illusion: such rabid arts have sprung to life, such creative dalliance—to drip honey, to grip iron, lost, if located in her smile. The fire of those chambers: coals and dice, dreams aside visions, in love with a face. It runs deeper. To adore a face. To see divinity. To feel cadence. To know for some lying to self. If to rejoice; if to seize existence; loving someone opens infinity.
