There is an inertia to love, there syllables slip and meaning flits. Where the heights of one exist in the depths of the other. Like some parts of one have to see the eyes of the other.
Sheer want of affection cannot scratch that surface. Just as token existence outside of posterity cannot derive outside of its tether. So when do ideas and form meld, just as eternity catches up the ages to contemplation’s slight tilt of the head. The inner fire always deigns to speak, when the wind comes calling.
What in event bears the signature of the universe, rearing to get your attention? The motif to outshine the conscious motive.
But a state of inertia is no fit place for a discourse. So this course turns, like a tightened corset tug, kneading the reins to re-enter the boundless night.
Proof of love is in the other. It calls for no other ensign.
But for a lover, that is never enough. And identity toils, and form reappears to make its foil. Syllables catch their caches of words and attributes identify their adjectifying constitutes. Grammar makes itself out to call time.
The tertiary makes inertia. And its measure not without its trial. Attestation to bridge the subjective, and requite to meet its respite.
Parables compete with aphorisms and silence extends to after thought.
Laughter is sought, giggles a universal type-set to calm home, the feeling hones to recognise its marker, like a horse with no name, sure-footed yet to a mystic muse. Until enthuse articulates enough felt to call the same.
Travails of consciousness shadow ancient histories like a mystery in aim.
Like every other, hears a pond of empathetic acclaim. Despite and unlike any.
Any inertia in love. Never and always invisible to all other eyes. Many a misty mornings ponder its surmise.