The urge to tell you that I love you is beyond reason. I can’t help but wonder if I really do.
Or if, I just have this urge. I have it in similar tones for other ways of my life.
But in you, the urge faces ambiguities so vast, it knows that it is probably not love.
Tempered and trusted, it tries even harder to back away, to release all doubt, but it finds this hard. Who are you?
Do you have an urge, a similar dream holding the leash where the collar closes around your sternum?
Do you trip over the lead when you run? When have you ever just inspected its resistance to slower speeds?
Does it ever occur to you to bother with what remains after your actions, the imposed reliance, the figured out anomalies?
I can for sure say that you know nothing, not everything at all. Truth is a flattering concept, to the starving urges of our minds, but it’s supple eyes and witty complexion is not so true. No matter it’s opinion.
Or yours, for that matter, or mine. We all just ogle the mannerisms of that informality anyway, and hope for results.
Who’s despondent lecture then, will we amount to be brave enough to question once we all confound these reasons? When? Will we never forget that our remnants are never sought for by the lack of urge?
We are all curious, we all know this. So why try and lie so inconspicuously, then?We know there’s no reason to.