Desire is the heart’s eye.
How does one see through it?
I watch you through memory. The key to my query begins to rust at the invisible lock, creaking after years of waiting to be born. But desire does not aspire me.
These thoughts shriek shrill words – a paradiddle of good moments salivating with slimed intention.
It is romanticism for your bleeding beauty; silent dreams scream lightning that incinerates my shacked desire.
Unknown unknowns scare me. I don’t know why pristine daydreams paint you with the most rotten of shades. Flaws are beautiful; perfection is dreadful.
My heart’s reach moves to the desire of the other.
It’s not you. It’s not me. It’s not my heart.
It’s mechanical. It’s like skin peeling away with a rippling sensation of joy – like sunshine illuminating from grey, weeping clouds.
It’s the unconscious mind I revel in, as it tears apart the unique façade of my heart for another cog.
Yet, that is a lie.
I should have known this would happen when I opened the lock. I only see excuses to ground what I cannot comprehend.
I cannot dance with strings. Desire dangles forever, tantalizing. I pull them; I cannot escape.
Lest I find scissors.