There’s a way to do this. Time may be running out, but somehow there’s a peace, to passionate ambivalence.
May I say that there is a method to it all? The seeing, the challenges wrapped in what seems like forbidden tension, are all creating something, a person maybe. But not I.
Enjoying is so deliriously avoided. The separation created is so maddening, with no benefit except space in between, that must be maintained. Constant working. Let them all come into you. Let it all reside as it may. Opportunity. Delirious and furious kind of, non speech, that runs through senses, on the ground and beyond it.
Placing, among words, sights and sounds that may never know bound if the category could cease.
Did you guess that one day we would really meet? Beyond hope and prayer. In love and weird glances that couldn’t be used for use? That when you came, I would never think to do anything but want you to.
Thought is so serial. But us, we could parallel, meeting everywhere because one, line, erupts into our never leaving hand, touch, watch. We meet here, as never before, but too damn familiar for deja.
Love is a delirious.