I tend to chide, a bookworm
whose erstwhile paradigm of love
is ever conditionally tensed.
If we were to, we would. Should we this, we that.
But did I stutter when I said I love you best?
Did the heart in your beat skip a chest?
Oh, dear.
If I were to attain perfection, I would ascend
into clouds of hubris so intense and vile
they choke out air.
And should I gather up the courage to take your hand as myself, hiding nothing, I would be
only myself.
Truth embodies the conditional endophytically, then vaporizes fear with its infrared beam.
The vestigial mist mildews the pages of our love, adding spots
so we remember which section was open that day
when we review for future generations where adventures began and plots thickened.
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