I want a page-turn of emotions to come,
not as identifiable print,
presenting to my eyes,
but more as the scent of a spacial,
that is out of the realm
of suitable comprehension.
where emotion has wings,
feels has a permission of breeze,
and wants to fly.
not as a bird embraced by circumstance,
but as sky admitting to kinship
with wing life.
like being a person,
that all of the heavens pass through,
on route to every next being,
face to face,
but more so done, as eye to eye.
like I see into you
and then through you.
your spirit, I call upon to rise,
feel permitted,
to be more so, than reality allows.
where emotions swim
to honor the pretext of gravity,
where I am within
every stroke of your life being painted,
but have no desire
to stare at the canvass of living
in its then ever-appearance,
as if to identify
from that which you left as memory for me.
I want where emotion is my first language
and spoken as vibratory,
beyond a conventional sensory range.
where no summaries made,
as if feelings search
for stall points of recognition.
just stream it.
full bodied,
beyond what breath does for any of us.
feelings, without the notion of boundaries.
feelings that have the ethics
of heart in function,
that are migratory,
as if sacred is always the flight path taken,
even before one's mind attaches or captures.
I would abandon read
as if nutritional for sanity,
if emotion abandon its cursory tendency
to follow,
and then leap-of-faith me into emotion,
as a flash-flood into each next moment.
internal friction me energetically
to be of next blessing of energy in passing,
where feel before context zaps me.
yes, there is always bloom.
but I want the emotional existence
of eternal blossom . . .
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