I am fluidly reassuring myself that this love is wise; a passionate sink can house and cleanse a soul if proper care is taken. My unsure feet are learning to claw into the path unctuously throwing me around this singularly-salted panoptic theatre slag-realm consuming warmth to excrete as convenience. She puts me through the ricing and encourages me to clasp grained profundity after presumptively correctly skewering my every sniveling instinct to pray when affection and attention are unavailable to allow my beloved creative delusions sprung as the cauliflower of these pangs. I pierce 'Us' each morning and exculpate her whilst excoriating myself. That is the way of correlative pains and this is the way I love her each and every time I think of, commune with, or simply breathe aires with a manifested signal that sustenance isn't always visible. Stretched as a closet accommodating wintry avoidants reaching for the warmth of my penta-tugged limerence; keeping it as a prayer never meant for the light of resentment that cannot be lost because it's borne of a loaming cowl nibling at the margins of prudence. Streets failed by a map skipped-on by the stone heart burning its new-found ochre leafing derided as her stepped-on low-tied nut for therapeutic leg bolts spread by name-branded store-bought privilege I see on my way back across One Hundred And Tenth.