Stolen craft

I made beautiful origami with the wrinkled paper of concept you had of our love. Then I extended my palm and whistled on it, it was sent on its floating way to chaos. You can always make and remake origami, so let's.

Your hesitation was like asking a question and asking it wrong to my face... that was very provocative I tell you. I was not fooled but I played as if you fooled me for a moment, I let you play the manipulative role; you know of my nature of chasing questions and turning them into a creative celebration of life. And so you keep asking the wrong questions to taunt me, but this time was even better, it was personal: pressing on your skin, using your bed on support for folding ourselves at desired edges, capricious angles & spontaneous approaches.

No one cared about originality,
creation was welcomed
and authenticity invaded the room by itself.

Mysterious and beautiful for me,
beautiful and forbidden for you.

We had more than that magnificent beauty as a commonplace and space to dance together, but hey, I mention it because at least beauty is something we can try and talk about... unlike the unspeakable pleasure that came and went occasionally in numbness, deafness and screams that bended our sense of time and blended your illusion of self... and that's that, who can talk of such a thing? We could try and justify ourselves saying we needed this, but needs ain't exist. We will to will what we will, nothing is truly necessary, but we like our little narratives don't we? It's always about wanting, we wanted each other and so we took what we wanted from one another when the other left the guard down, there's divinity for us right there, stealing attention back and forth, a childish game, a wonderful one indeed.

Sharing you say? Ow come on! My love is not to be explained, even less so to be shared, not willingly for that matter; if you want something to do with it, you better try hard to steal it, I challenge you. And if you dare to go for the heist and take it from me, damn-it! it is yours.

If someone judges the thief I'd say that it was fair for her to steal something from me, stolen art rise in value for something you can call “a reason”, there's no reason and there is, and that reason is love.

What we love dies slower,
what we love lingers in time
just for a minute longer,
what we steal is precious
because of that.

Steal a piece of my love, my love.
And I might go take it back from you
if you take an important piece,
something that I need back,
that I want back.

It is unlikely because my love is a renewable resource that keeps flowing on and on, but you deserve at least an opportunity; I'll leave my love unattended for you, just for a nanosecond. I'll concede you that benefit, because you inspired me and inspiration is a form of theft, the theft of attention; the theft of a brief moment of our precious time alive; in privacy, each one gets a wanted blink of a subject out of a morphing common object.

I'll let you make
an object out of me,
a billion mind objects,
a billion moments...

And if you fall in love with
any of those objects
and get distracted,
that might just give me a chance
to leave if I don't miss my cue.

You said it can't be love because it won't last. Even better. The word 'Love' in its deepest meaning has to seem like blasphemy to the perception and idea of an indifferent nature, the very same that lasts forever, the very same I've been fighting since it spawned me to life. As you should know by now, ideas are alive, they play and compete as any living organism, they live incarnated on consciousness like animals live incarnated on flesh.

Offending a vicious idea
is a task left only for champions,
and love is a blasphemous offense
for the vicious indeed.

The very word is just an idea menacing to come alive, an idea anticipating with words of its intent to be manifested into a subject so it can become a higher self, transcend words and rise to heresy...

There's a catch to any blasphemy; its strength can be asphyxiated when overused and abused. Empty repetition can lead to that, but _repetition_ is not overuse nor abuse on itself if it leads somewhere, if it inspires and transforms to action, mana or matter.

Make it worth it,
transcend blasphemy to heresy with me,
if we can't be heroes,
let’s at least champion this loving art,
we'll make a stand against nature
in celebration of life
for our own wonderful purposes.

So love me again and again my love,
get lost in this stubborn repetition.

A heresy that stops when kingdom come. You'll stop saying you love me and fuse your true intentions, you'll shut up and scream to distract me from leaving and steal my attention once again, inspiration that keeps me going and going...

Love just manifested stealing away
our precious consciousness
for a gasp of a moment,
an immeasurable loop.

That's really worth something, words be damned.

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