This has no meaning and no reason. I just like to think about you too much.

Through your fickle hands and fickle heart I smoothly transition to myself;

And though I knew that from the start you would be the one to know me well,

I knew not well your fatal approach,

Its mysterious elegance, its filthy air.

You were to me as still a broach,

Of words so quaint and purposeful and fair.

You said, “Dear bright, oh weeping friend, how does the night so buy your end?”

And won me back from heaven’s might,

I do not know that poison bites.

Well my back I turned and to delight!

And so, I said, “Dear, I know not, of ends and endings of ends forgot.

Though I know words and fables too,

The trick is, Sir, to be friends with few.”

You protest, and, I turn to see,

Your face in mockery of simple, small me,

But no face I encounter on a pivot of heel,

You smoke, you wonder,

You are not real.

“Do not face me fearless,” you whisper sound,

“I do not mean to scare you; I do not mean to be found.

I hide in the shroud of night as she waits,

For day her dear enemy, to hold her at bay.

My skin be like feral, be open, be new,

But your eyes must not take it,

Must stay only to you.”

“But! Sweet breath that I do contend, allow me your mystery a genre to end!

For you are nothing but a gasp of vision’s arrogance,

Through which I see myself, and blood, and this carnage!

Do not be alone,

Do not seek to arrive,

Be humble! Be Bold! And I will be satisfied!

For you seem enough, just right on your own.

You will be enough; I see to it, I’ll be done.”

So I whirl to see you, but no image I catch,

Your anger is fretful, as keen as a match,

A flame licks no higher than air can find lift,

But your flame was so chilling, I hardly knew this.

“Oh, you pass with remorse,”

I might think aloud.

“Allow me to humble you and say no more;

And I will leave, and the floor will remain for soles,

As well as mine,

Which sinks to it in deep lulls.”

“Sweet miss!” He calls,

And I startle, for ‘fore thought he gone,

“I am never so worried,

I know only my song.

But I wish I was fluent in great features of yours,

A symphonic register, I cannot accord.”

I stay fearful, but hopeful, a concoction of fools,

“Sir! I am in love! With you, oh with this spool!

This unwinding thread that laces so thin,

But when run over much,

Grows thick as a skin! And your skin,

Oh my dear, you know how you do.

Please one touch, oh

One kiss,

And then I’ll be through.

I need just confirmation, and I need just time.

My hesitation is panicked,

By your weakened spine.”

“Do not see it weak, see it favoring life,”

His agitation is such as my heart wanting blood: rife.

Though I knew as he spoke it, I knew of my strife.

“My pleasantries settled,” he went, “I know of your pain,

I feel sorrow, and stillness, and I know only your name.

But my love.

I am honest. And honest of kind.

You do, look so lovely, as heaven with eyes.”

“Grow cold and grow colder, I know not of this.

You leave to my earnest, you leave to my miffed.”

I’m touchy and blushing,

And he is still mine,

In my heart though I’m shaking, thinking it blind.

And he touched my skin suddenly, and I knew not a word,

To utter, to think,

My overjoyed entity whirred.

How I kindly suspected, that he cared not for me.

But of his own graded kindness,

That I could just see.

“Dear, turn and peer,” so I followed his ask. And I slowly did circle,

And I slowly did pass. And my eyes made their mark,

An untimely throw.

I was not aware,

I would want him, this show.

“Dear,” he says, not evading my eyes,

“This is your will’s wanting, this is still your prize. I know of its privy,

I know I am worse,

I fear not your judgment,

As this silence so slurred.

Speak! Speak aloud? Do you hate not inside?

Oh please dear just a word,

I know I could cry.”

I gaze at him, open, and know that right then.

No beauty could hurt me,

As much as this man.

I smile, and embrace him, my arms long ribbons frayed,

“I know you are broken, allow my solace made.”

“You sweet earth, you sweet miser, you sweet everything else.

How could you, just love me, like I was yourself?”

His words I turn over, a terror inside,

“I run not on love, but on fatal and true. You are too much love,

For me, and for you.”

I knew now his face, and I knew now his feel.

I knew that his beauty,

His heart,

His soul,

His mind,

His skin,

His love,

Was all real.

Or as real as I willed,

All of him to be.

I know not of love,

But of love’s wanting to see.

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