Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Perfection. If you'd allow, I would love nothing more than to write about you till the universe crumbles to dust. But does it mean anything? No matter how much I talk about Beauty - replete in your aura everytime you glide by - and the importance of acknowledging it, I have to admit what I fear: that if you had anything more than a cursory presence in my life, none of this would mean anything to me. I'm self-aware enough to see that whatever noble intentions I may begin with, they are sidetracked when my heart makes its scene. In writing about your Brilliance, it is as though I am appealing to the universe to make you realize that there is a fool such as I enraptured by your spell. (As for what I imagine happens post this realization, well, I don't think you need me to spell that one out.) So yes, I could fill volumes trying to figure out what it is that takes over me every time I see you. Give me the time and from these sensations, I could probably write every poem worth reciting. You are everything, and everything would make sense if only you drew a step closer. Yet that's the one thing I can't write into being.

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