Flat pockmarked land is complimented by a cloudless blue sky, which fades to white at the horizon. Broken by concrete, land remains relentlessly forever sprawling. Billboards rise, but aren’t read through speeding car’s windows But forever straight fades into rising and falling waves upon tree-marked land. And then the road floats and the land sits and grows. Through the transparent sometimes speckled glass children watch, but pulling out into cars, parents groan about time lost and families ...

I love is more than or equal to you love, is less than or equal to, us in love, is somewhere high above numbers and variables, an exponent to our equation of affection.

I kiss your heart; from the moisture flowers spring in full bloom. Stroking your hair, strands of locks form a sea of thick brown curls between my languid fingers, which caress softly the ocean on your head. Your body, like a mountain ridge, does have reliefs which I do lay my fingers upon with the care of lover.

I kiss your heart and from the moisture flowers spring in full bloom. Stroking your hair, strands of locks form seas of thick brown curls between my languid fingers, which caress softly the ocean on your head. Your body, like a mountain ridge, does have reliefs which I do lay my fingers upon with the care of lover.

You, and me, and us, and everything that ever was, and is, and will be, lives —singularly— in mind of new born, slowly awaking from the abyss of nothingness to light of existence.

You, and me, and us, and everything that ever was, and is, and will be, is compromised —singularly— in mind of new born, slowly awaking from the abyss of nothingness to light of existence.

Our feet sound the same, as we run across the sand. We feel the same burning, experience the same tiny specks of rocks between our toes, as we leap in and out of the rushing tide. Leaving twin footprints in the grain, we ardently run towards the red-yellow blurring horizon. Our hands clasped tight, a singular outline against the so-long sun.

We spoke, for days, for nights, for years, about everything, nothing, the great question about life, the universe, and everything; and in the end, at the dial tone, I fell in love with that voice on the other line, softly speaking ideas, principles, and possibilities. I fell in love with the intonation of her voice—trying to convince and sound smart, clever, and witty. I fell in love with her crazy logic and theses, with her possibility realities. I fell in love with the quiet “uh hu” offered...

Voluptuous bulges lack veracity and wonder bras removed tell truths. Copulating kids kiss and surreptitiously make fervent love in the back of cars. Looks lack love and pregnant single woman line up in front of clandestine fronts. Kissing continues as death is doled by doctors dealing with teenage traumas. Aboratative acts incite protests by mindless masses. Kissing continues. Lacking veracity, protests push nowhere. Love lingers in copulated cars [and children continue to cry].

Causing chaos we — flirtatiously, licentiously— with our eyes, leap across the Grand Canyon and into the in-between infinity. Sinuously, with our hands, we mold castles from the air. So, when hordes come crashing towards, we can hide in what we have created. Ardently smiling, like pink side-ways Cs painted across both our faces, we kiss and Cs, become Os, become side ways 8s, and our ever-increasing entropy effects us, and makes us hold on tighter. So hard [that] we lose our apostrophes and b...