I’ve finally come to a conclusion… the first in my life I think. I’m in love. What an annoying nothing… the word love. Undermined after years of unrepresented use and manipula­tive thought. Contemporary teens, playing with matches to start fire that will only burn down their own foundations of security and ontology. It’s a card trick to them, after all they’re immortal, and apprehensions are as pointless as relationships. Throwing around promises that should tear the doors of heaven apart revealing metaphors incapable of description, but in­stead suffocates in a beer glass. Love use to mean something. It still does for me, but for others it’s a cryptic dialogue, dis­guised for the mere purpose of placation. To reach that level of appeasement, to get her into your room or to that party or into that pathetic dream that was summoned from the filth of petulant, diseased weakness. Riches used to buy money less valuable. Absurd reality that tortures its puppets. It’s a mo­mentary high that you inhale when unhappiness overcomes boredom: “I think I love that girl over there,” as he falls from the pinnacle of a drunken revelation. What does he think? Jesus Christ, what happened to that inexplicable emotion that could jump into a pregnant pool of chaos and bear harmony? I’m just rambling of course, because who wants to be told that their life is extravagant without love? Or can infinity truly reside inside a moment’s establishment?

The only light in breath becomes that crystal that re­flects the only happiness. Pretty rock. The reason to brush your teeth, build materialism in a gym, make the field goal to win paper. So if she flies higher to a bird with brighter feathers do mine wither away? Our constructed bridge of self-image that chiseled a connection in her heart is burned, bur­ied, and consumed by the soiling footsteps of the mass. Is my purpose forgotten, a blaring cacophony of everything worth living for now reduced to a mere whisper carried by a strug­gling wind? Life is so fickle.

The purest form of logic in a wrapper of recycled tears. Smile. Click. Flash. Infinity in a moment impossible? Not when lost in her eyes. Oceans of polished perfection, dreams radiating in a sunset. Redundant? Or perhaps the point is still overlooked. Lips against cold glass only create steam until the reflection melts into my own and I feel for the first time the embrace of divine fulfillment: an ecstasy of climax in lit­erature. Transcendence.

Infinity in a moment impossible? A flower has petals… well so do hurtians. She loves me… she loves me not. One by one they disappear like so many grains of sand into a sea infested with larger stones. The sense of insignificance. Are the petals flying through skies of opportunity, rainbows on the tip of cupid’s arrow, or are they gathering dust at the bot­tom of a nothing somewhere in the middle of forgotten? Love is all the same anyways right? Honey or sugar with your tea sir? Or similarly: love or lust with your life sir? They’re both sweet right? I’ve found a lover. Correction  am the lover, but without symmetry. I merely observe another.. .my wishful reflection. The difference between observation and experience is why courage is wiped so insipid these days. They’re the same for some people. A picture of perfection in a broken frame wearing promises that cover her face, which she only removes at Apollo’s request. If only Zeus would create clouds to cover the sun maybe she would see light gleaming from another foundation cut into the silhouet­ted waves of night. I Jump over that cliff only to slip in grease and plunge into something I’ve never felt before. Despair. Extra sugar for me please. Sipping… it tastes like tears roll­ing from a face that’s willing to tunnel into Hell, curse Sa­tan’s existence, roll Sisyphus’ stone, and steal a cup of flour to later return home so she could make herself a cake. From darkness I reach my hand in and return with a scar. The cake finished by pigeons, I’m melted into the black and white floor… left with nothing, but the crumbs to eat.

For those who have never felt love there is no diction for it, no analysis that separates Shakespeare from lunatics. A far off dream captured in mistake by a man waving to insects and chained to a cave named fate inside inevitable’s stom­ach. Paradoxes: life’s little charmers. I never use to dream. Magnificence harvests everything, plucking off the heads of sorrows that the locusts digest somewhere in the corners of imagination to later join rejection cowering in the shadows. Words are too common. How about Probity?… No, Too broad. Forgiving? A word too undeserving. Happiness? No, too su­perficial. Respectful? Intense? Gentle? Kind? Beautiful? Ra­diating? Complex?… no… Perfection?… no comment. Merely place infinity in a moment and then you’ll understand.

Words merely use diamonds as coal to fuel a train to­wards a circle where no point will be made at all. But we must continue, trying to describe this feeling there’s the jus­tification? Then your eyes meet hers, perhaps it is a moment less than it takes to reverse it, but your heart explodes anyways. Realization. I need no answers, no sugarcoated poetry. I need no breath, no wine, no acceptance, no high, no dove. All that I need has been provided in a tight package of stares, embraces, and the belief of infinity in a moment.