She told me her inclination was to avoid romance and endure a friendship that freed her. I had walked a mile with this envy, torturing my libido. Torching my straw house. And then we kissed again in my memory. It ceases to be in that moment.
A simple unanxious moment.
It is an unerring infatuation.
And we would kiss again, yet with questionable authority. Her children still yearning to be fed. These conceptions of self-worth and contempt, compounded in a mission statement, complicated in desire, though undiluted in consequence. They are somehow familiar with this pride.
--If I could disregard all my feeling, I would.
--But it's rare, you know. It's cheap, and I give.
It's the sensation after labor. It's the accomplishment, but more. It's fulfillment and exhaustion. When you've leveled all of your ability for it. When it's nothing but impetus and will.
Except that there is no labor. And nothing defined as such.
So I leave it for opportunity to decide, as virtues will not walk with me.
I can always live with the animals.
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