Compostition of Intimacy

With fears of eternal solitude, I called truce.

Obstacles fill the atlas of our hearts, 

distracting our impressions of exquisite Love.

Our painful beliefs insist we reprieve our minds,

voiding our previously learned doctrines of romance.

Phobias of Love furiously traveled the hourglass of our lives.

Chaos constrained our philosophy of enchantment,

echoing the algorithms, we lay faithful to. 

Is it our occupation, relaxation, or ruination?

An object in concealment shielded by divine beauty.

Portions of our identities exposed by our erotic affection.

Confessions were blindly rehearsed under hypnosis.

Our meanings of Love removed the cloth covering each other’s eyes.

A concoction of morphine and nectar were the desires,

leaving us tantalized by the soul of our mysterious beloved.