He spoke in a rough gruff of a voice, trying to hide his disintegrating stability. His neck was moist, appearing to have lost the capability.
"Rosy, my dear, what do you find so grotesque about love?"

"It's not love, it's what love does to you,"
She responded without hesitation. Evidently hiding her deprivation.

He sank into his ribcage, tactically turning air into mist.
"Then tell me, what is love?"
He latched on unwillingly to the idea that their thoughts could coexist.

She shut her eyes in dismissal and bit her lower lip, clenched her jaw real tight
"To tell you the truth Vincent, I don't quite know. I've tried desperately to understand it, with all my might. But I know that it isn't love if you don't collapse into the palms of another like an unstable building when they touch you."

"Be weary my dear, your humanity is showing."
He said with a slight gust of laughter. As if his sarcasm is bestowing.

"Remember that day in July, when a butterfly landed on your hand? And you picked it up and pinned its wings? You do that with everything, you know.
And truly, it stings."
The words lunged from her throat like a long awaited confessional, done by a man sought out by death. Because the concept of peace is obsessional.

"You know that I'd never keep you from flying. I'd never make you choose a cool winds breeze over a life spent in my cage. I wouldn't stand to hear the tortures of your crying."
He swallowed a hard lump down his chest.
"You showed me where to look amongst the gardens and the graves. You pointed out the masters and you pointed out the slaves."

She slid out of her identity into something more comfortable.
**"You must understand, my dear, you are beautiful but you do not mean a thing to me. Love can never be interminable."

Fingers make contact with hands,
                                             we can’t stand like,
butter
flies
     on
       a
tree branch

amidst a strange wind.

Fluttering above
trees rooted in sidewalks,
out of sight.

And it feels like
the texture of our shirts
is truth,
    the cat fur,
       the bed sheets,
           our clenched teeth,
Molly whispers in our head
a meditative melody,
and we’re rollin,'
our infinite eyes
hung together
in widened silence,
enjoying a good lie.
Indigo children
with no words, just hands,
applauding the feeling,
dreading the end.
Time past,
grown up,
deflated,
we come down
to see that
sober is just
categorizing
adjectives.

Fear is merely a liar.

She stood in the hallway
With a ghost of a smile
Buried deep in the alleys of Norway
Hoping she would stay awhile

He slid back against the wall
Shoulders arched, head down
The darkness hid his frown
He promised me forever
Far beyond the afterlife
He wishes to make me his wife

She's got morbid, crystal eyes
Where all my sanity dies
Like a flash flood and a thunderstorm
All taking place at once
Like a scientific conveyance

He had hands only a poet could love
Only a writer could make sense of
Softly curved around the edges
Lumpy and dented in all the wrong places

It was a love story between an evolutionist and a man who tasted of creation