I look at her.
A tilt of tangles.
But she knows.
Oh silly Fairy Queen.
Angel, blazing with the glory of God.*
I shan’t yield to you like that.
It isn’t proper, my Love.
Exaggerated, pleading, stomping, begging.
All supple and absent of gravity.
I found you, you fool.
You silly, illogical, impractical, idealistic dreamer of such impossible dreams.
I found you, despite it all.
You should know better.
Why haven’t you cut it out of yourself?
You won’t ever do it.
I can tell.
That’s the difference.
Foolhardy, stubborn ass, unsmiteable love only bonds upon itself.
The difference for the difference.
The only love complete.
Such must not be weakened by words aplenty, mundane, depreciated.
Loose lips are a sin despite intent, the default inadequate, unworthy at best.
And with the sly sauntering of a tail and a grin of delightful scrumptious devourment stretching from one ear to another, a Cheshire Cat sits quite poised though drunk upon the madness of love and tacitly reveals the truth to all of those who attend his antics.
Rest not on pillowed proclaiming
heralded from your future or your past,
for such pillow supports
not head, nor heart.
Lost in the present,
one finds such sleepy words
more eclipse than comfort.
It is the wonder of the present,
the wonder of what,
that wakes life
from its slumbering hibernation,
that turns meaningless utterances
of numbing habit
into the titillating sensations
of undeniable existence.
down or up,
or whichever way it happens to go
at the moment,
in that rabbit hole,
will you find
you are looking for…
*borrowed and appreciated from BSG in reference to Starbuck