Because of the passion in his eyes from the war fought along side crowded masses, swaying and crashing like tides hammering unguarded shores.
Her image distorts the true essence beneath the paper machete bangs that glide effortlessly, vaingloriously, truly sculpted like Van Gogh nose.
Because It’s strangling the neck, causing blood to be locked into the brain where all surgeons diagnosis hidden tumors burrowing under mounds of so-called love.
Her voice conjures angels with full body armor, vigorous, rigid mountain peeks crumble beneath her words that flow together like woven yarn, building warmth.
Because the heights are causing his heart to jump over the edge hoping the life-support parachute will deject at the very moment reality decides to awaken again.
Her lips are parted just enough to witness their lustful fullness, an aura as robust as the suns first rise on earth, but the night before is still tattooed on her back.
Because he can’t speak her language right, stirred by the very notion of her eyes, those endless hallways that always lead to the one door that won’t budge.
Her smile is brief, just a soft disturbance that halts his breathe, closing his throat so suddenly that it is like choking, choking on his own heart.
Because he rejects everything that creates her before she was born, washing away the pastel leftovers from his finger tips, soap and water, faking a nod so the blood will clear.
Her witty exchange offers closure, “We all want affection, we all want what ever love is,” she whispers, stepping into the only car left on earth.
Because he hates himself, hates himself enough to not search the last aisle for what’s left.
“It will all go away, but you were never there…”
