You are that broken sentence
The places where we insist we know our secluded regard
The affected guile and the guise of white teeth
Where I am unmoored and fallen to come against you
The enamel of the complex folds that gush
Rose-blood droplets to ring beneath your,
Gentleman’s grin
As if you are not the conventional
Trap
The once-again you said, or couldn’t do;
But I have never even touched you, or gave inside remainder
Of my selves
The color of your handsomeness engaged,
And now the complex or intimate reversals
Are as close to me as the
Wanting, or each pattern is limited with your constant
Approval
That comely daggerine approbation; that deeply felt cut that
Pours his winsome tumult into an aphoristic neglect
And now each wound is meaningful and delightful to behold
And the cadence of your trembled vows
And bring that damp false hope
As dangerous as your oceanic seasons, the gray squalls and stellated
Delicacy; storms of slate and ultramarine
Perfection
— I am swallowed up. | RR