I'm giving into the reality that a city is only as exciting as the love that it could be. When a potential romance dies, the spark that lit up that glow dims too. I wish it weren't so but that's who I am. I live for love. I write love. I create with it, against it, for it, around it, thanks to it always in endless repulsion and adoration.
I write in love with word that makes love. Love makes the word. The pulsation of my heart to the keyboard tap tap beat beat. Word, word. The beloved object between us, us the word. The beloved linguistic bliss. Or the utter lack of words and just the non-words issued by eyes and hands. A beautiful face that no amount of words could summarize. Only your eyes. Only your glorious eyes in mine. That's hardly a word. That's a perfect heartbeat. Beat. Beat.
Don't forget me forever. Sing me when you're older and you've realized that you've let us slip into a pointless lacuna. When we are more lacuna than present then perhaps we simply aren't anyway.
Aren't. Yet around all the gaps a piece of me will long to keep adoring those moments when we were blissful somebodies. Some body day I'll see you heart heart heart. Is it the you or the deepest of wishes to feel that way? How to separate the blissful being from the inspirer of such feeling? We try to extricate the essence so that perhaps it could be again.
Swish heart into place and adore the everything space that fills the lungs of a dinosaur in a fantasy novel about robots. Non sense permeates the desire to uplift so that it's ok that nothing makes sense exactly sometimes.
I write in love with word that makes love. Love makes the word. The pulsation of my heart to the keyboard tap tap beat beat. Word, word. The beloved object between us, us the word. The beloved linguistic bliss. Or the utter lack of words and just the non-words issued by eyes and hands. A beautiful face that no amount of words could summarize. Only your eyes. Only your glorious eyes in mine. That's hardly a word. That's a perfect heartbeat. Beat. Beat.
Don't forget me forever. Sing me when you're older and you've realized that you've let us slip into a pointless lacuna. When we are more lacuna than present then perhaps we simply aren't anyway.
Aren't. Yet around all the gaps a piece of me will long to keep adoring those moments when we were blissful somebodies. Some body day I'll see you heart heart heart. Is it the you or the deepest of wishes to feel that way? How to separate the blissful being from the inspirer of such feeling? We try to extricate the essence so that perhaps it could be again.
Swish heart into place and adore the everything space that fills the lungs of a dinosaur in a fantasy novel about robots. Non sense permeates the desire to uplift so that it's ok that nothing makes sense exactly sometimes.
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