You book, you’re always telling a story,
always characterizing, always plotting to find that part of me
that may or may not exist. Love is fiction, baby. It comes and goes
and grows and recedes and sometimes tells the truth. Entire worlds
are crossed and uncrossed and canceled out due to marketing failures. We
are human after all, and after. The most, the broadest, the widest, the largest, the ‘est’ is the problem. Nothing more. Face value, that’s what we’re afraid of. Giving is an act, treason a cause. Lying is a desperate attempt, loving a lunar landscape. Light my way, oh desperate one in the common of the more desperate among us.
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