I map out entire existences in the blink of an eye. I could hire statisticians for the things I’d describe. Statistical paralysis. Analysis by analytics. It’s lonely in the library, & things considered semi-cryptic. focused on the binary, I do the math on how to rule you. it’s crucial, at worst. at best, it’s the crest’s pivotal curve of your numeral worth. I take your pros-&-your-cons and expose them to darkness, it’s the only way light doesn’t reach the holes in my heart. I’ll lay em atop of a cube. Analyze the three dimensions that you provide me with. through a lens made out of optics formed out of the knowledge. The collage that you provided keys too. Base data on inflections of voice, first impressions, interventions,…something like a robot. I picture your arms carrying babies. Or not.
I watch myself in the future kiss you, I don’t live in the moment. I base my actions based on inaction. Facets of your personality. I imagine imaginations painted by molasses. Stain the glass with satin, every phase attained by magic, any phrase you say just happens; take the grain of salt and lay it in my bandage.
Everything’s collapsing. my scent of cologne embeds itself in your bed and at home, I could smell a smidgen off your breath, in your clothes, I could command your every movement when I sense pheromones. Underneath your breast and your bones, I unhinge flesh like velcro, my very own skeleton. laugh at I love yous, and love when you laugh, you. tender, ecstatic, bobble doll of synapses. I’d scientifically describe your most indescribable features, sync a timeline of my desire to reach you. it’s sci-fi. It’s see through. It’s highlighted. Something a drone would probably do. Spark a creative pattern through the arching of the hue.
I embark on lifeless journeys of love, and delineate fractions based on the perfectest touch. Succumb to tithes of jury. Put me on trial, and give me 10 percent of you. THEY SAY 90 percent of all human interaction is non verbal. 10 percent is this: Arguments, clergy. The nonsense unfurling. I wish I could calm the constant stream of knowledge we learn by being earthy.
Human. confusing. It’s messy. I react by reaction time. Read sociological patterns to brush up on my intuition. Set impossible standards. I bird watch in my mantle. I light a candle for every soul I dismantle. Wax factory deluxe, the crux of the mad man babbling himself in a notepad on his iPhone about how he has… nothing. Man VS Machine, clockwork orgasm. The hands turning to me. I try to remain myself, but I’m to caught up sometimes, on how to breathe, when to breathe, the exact figure of when I made you laugh. And painfully reenact the environment so it happens again. Emotional car wreck. a toaster with arms.
I envy real writers. It’s robotic, it’s sick. It’s over the top berating. it’s a boiling pot, it’s cynic. I hate it. I hope that you love me, I’m not what I am, not what you know. it’s okay. I’ve yet to become a sentient prose. how long is a century? I want to become something….beyond the patternized percussion the heartbeat that my lungs give.
It’s a time-frame of discussion, where parallel universes meet each other. Oxygen. Breathes breaths, I could hear the silence in-between sex. I could see the inside of your eyelids when you dream depth, and I wish I would die before we even meet/met. built a labyrinth, two lefts make a wrong, if you’re right then you’re wrong. Everything’s wrong. only way to be right is to be yourself, I bleed the buzz of my alcohol out through a scenic route.