I want to look at her-
But, the longer I stare
the less I care.

There is nothing more worthy of desire than the relative end that is a pretty face. The only thing worthy of a striving for, is the love of a female. Its what ignites one's bones; 'but the chase is all we know-the portraits of a future unreachab;e are never as perfect upon reaching the future.
the true paradox in my opinion, that of eternal aspirations and the temporal tumbling down that I equate with the reality of it....this is the true disappointment that I involuntarily (perhaps voluntarily-a choice to live within truth; the only truth that matters to me.) ground myself within;. I know for certain that this is the contradiciton I find my truthfulness within. In this parenthesis of sadness and refusing-to-believe while needing to find her; here I find my shell.
I get dressed in the morning in the borrowed clothes of someone who still pretends she is waiting-this taste of time tightens the skin on this face though, and I am unable to disguise at times the scolded shape the blowing of the wind has brought upon the bones on this face.

I wish to hold onto the memory of her looking at the books while knowing that I'd soon be coming up the stairs, and that she would be in my view upon coming around the corner. On that day she was till something to me; the mind I intuited to lie behind her eyes before I had spoken to her on more than one occasion. Ah love, truly the cruelest contradiction of them all; a need to believe aligned with an understanding of impossibility-this is the paradox that can weaken one into strength. This is the truth within which I ground my feet. the walls of this bubble encapsulating me all wherever I am; its' air i need to breathe no matter how tired of the taste I've become.

The car is falling apart; black ice sends this death box into a slide right through a stop sign- I coulda killed somebody; I curse thoughtlessness. I curse poverty for imposing itself upon the periphery of my life and demanding to enter as a permanent citizen. Like some glee club choir boy growing up in a nice neighbourhood beside the projects; he fears the market might crash; that pretty soon the bad neighbourhood will be encroaching upon is once pristine front lawn. Some glee club kid who wishes he'd never had faith in something his brain knew to be a tragic endeavour all along-an aspiration that some passion for someone could conquer the conflict that arises within his understanding upon speculating mere moments ahead into the future, should he allow the car to continue to follow continue sliding through stop signs.
The brakes barely work on this thing anymore, soon we'll be sent sliding into some city filled with skinny shadows and echoes of maniacal laughter. That's when you turn to me passionlessly to tell me we've arrived home.

A project of artful deception he thought; he'd show the life you could never keep-enjoy the present tense and never allow the voice of foresight to speak.,,,had to learn the hard way, that when you don't want time to turn, the clock ticks even faster. The feeling like the time for embracing the present tense has long since turned to the past. He thought, 'leave it to an assasin like me to break your heart without blinking an eye....to show her what a broken heart would really feel like...'
I learned a trick from a few guys who lived a few hundred years before me- a method of keeping my outward self completely disconnected from the state of my interiority. Not such a great trick really, for, though the assasin never blinks, only he and he alone can ever know the pain that lies at his lowest layer of sediment. When the sun shines upon his skin-he may be drowning within. Not because he can't swim...or because no others allow themselves to be subsumed by the sea...but only because he feels he owes it to the shiip to at least go down with it.
Simplicity had always sickened him-it was a childish ambition to embark upon a task that the man in him knew would always be an impossibility. The Absolute paradox, in honesty, means nothing to me, yet I know the suffering that lies within embodying a contradiction. With every step I take towards wherever I'm going-a part of my gut lies in the gutter-this is living in the certainty of uncertainty. This is living in the reality that extends about the orchard when a child has learned that an apple only rots upon its being plucked from the tree. He wishes to pluck the prettiest of apples; he longs to taste apples with everything within him; but even as he takes steps closer to the trees, he sees the wormholes, he sees the blemishes-his taste buds leak as his heart grows weak. "Musn't pluck that apple from the tree-musn't pluck that apple from the tree." 'Worse than rotting-is what happens to things I eat.'
He didn't need God- but he desperately sought an eternity for the one true baby. I know this trip necessarilly is an impossibility given the nature of the two seperate hearts that lie at the centers of you and me. Cruelty is the paradox that speaks of eternity in temporality. Even crueler is the contradiction that speaks of pairing two lovers who, in order to attain purity, need to a achieve a subjective monadic unity- when always condemned to the context of humanity.

Last year it was those cheekbones-this year its those translucent eyes I can barely see they're so blue; so light that one thinks her eyes may be completely translucent to allow for another to peer right into her thoughts. But to love is to judge, and the moment I tried to sneak a peak through, I realized that I never should've told myself I loved you.

Let the bubble of negativity sheathe me with the cold knowledge of knowing what I can never hold. That is precisely the tragic hope of love; it is a splitting thread that one needs to sew their entire world together with. That is the contradiction within my soul-the infinite interestedness in interesting eyes; the opening of book only to read it from cover to cover each and every time.

days later-
... someone who knows how the night time works and secretly loathes the currency of appearances of indifference and the 'who's fucked who', as much as I do. It would take years for you to understand her in the way that I do-the night time has been my lover for so long; I anxiously laugh at those who still find her appealing enough to fall in love. Surround myself with those still pretending to buy into her seductive tricks. The thought of you entering into a relationship with her in the spots that her and I still flirt....only to watch you be thoughtlessly subsumed in the current of loud beats and self-promotional pretentiousness; i worry you'd respond with awe as you once did me; this thought makes me laugh, and at that very moment of laughter I find myself filled with the most confusing passion I've always empathically imagined was felt by a protaganist in a tragic comedy, upon realizing that all love built upon a framework of frailty.