Past, pretense and future hindsight dares you to pontificate on your escape, they’ll point if she caters to your fate, and ask whose burying the next round, and when do you return from delusion to find that you are twenty minds late? But you ask as if the answer lies in the knowing, when love lives in the dying, yet still you are young in the grey of years past to believe that your vision and my survival are dependent on each other, like a Teller bound to a story unfolding with the falling and rising of eye lids, opening revelations and shutting down imagination’s excesses, banished to the kingdom of Sleep, unchartered chapters of mystical and mortal men’s premature strides, running like percussion through dark forrest into the cycle of death, birth and bastardisation, where beginners and old masters are disowned and abandoned by the twisted night to be discovered by the creased morning of wall scaling daylight dreams, pressed into purposeful and pleasurable copulation, the greatest sex they ever had felt like dying and being born at the same time, and yet she never touched him, fifteen minds before he fell from her grace into your bed and out of my heart, transfigured into the maroon shadow that haunts our love’s memory.
We were merely the reflection of consequences put into place, tall before our eyes first met, unmatched in the first desire of seductive impression, and ten minds before I drank in the light of her archaic beauty, and with mine eyes seeing the glory, and ceasing the moment, painted her on the fragile canvas of my soul, I stole a solitary glance and whisper of her breath from the air we shared, inhaled deep into hungry lungs that devoured it like a secret to hide from evil relatives, the envious paws of strutting organs that sought her for themselves. What the heart wants, when the liver needs, her beauty and my kidneys tangled, tussled up, cries of triumphant oratory for down strokes that reach further than vocabulary allows, vying for her attention, detained by my intent. Everything is in her, and everything that she exudes raises the stakes and cuts through the drift that my thoughts float on, my impulse finds itself in a maze with courage and it’s stomach locked out with fear of what awaits above the trenches, outside of first and second skin, the surgical dissection of my emotions turn from blood to the colour purple, and my hand reaches out again to be met with indifference and a smile worn back to front, five minds before she stood infront of me without a face, to be written into existence and drawn with experience, who she never was, to be, yet to be, lost loved, a travelling mystery through time on the grand tour of life, her hair long as eternity with strands swept off her head by the wind onto her shoulders, and further up to the ground beneath my clay feet of hope that she would find my unwritten face, and tell my fast, tense and determined future in her sight….