another piece written like zombie

[Darth Yoda]

hai I hop u enjouy it as mushy as I willed writing it

you’re one in a million. no — infinitys like it. I don’t mean to be confined to verbalize in hyperboles, but they aren’t brilliant enough to describe the electrodes that speed through my spine. I’m instantly livened. It’s like the chemistry’s psychic. Intertwined within each and every single love chemical, you’d need more than one decimal, point to line it up. Entropy. It’s so heavenly, and that’s putting it objectively, minus, the sentiments thats behind them. And when I see into your eyes, the dark chestnutty iris. The appealing chill inside my skeleton, that reiterates the climate. More like genetic. The way you obliterate. And leave me breathless as I sigh, such brevity, it’s either catch my breath: or I die. I wish I could get a license. To kill. All the finicky feelings. but I wouldn’t want to frighten the dulcet when the symphony’s singing. The orchestra you create. Formula so innate. Feel it in my bones and then in space. You’re now cordially invited to take over my vertebra. I want to build a boat and cruise the night overseas. and shoot darts, with no shoes on. at the oval scene. Then go to sleep, due to the blowing breeze that shoots into the scaffolding. It’s sorta cute. Cause honestly, it’s you, that’s arguably the only ounce of normalcy that continues forcibly. Without you I’m not sure I would’ve gone on. And writing love-songs doesn’t sound old to me. But, okay. What if in another life, yeah; another. do you ever wonder? What if we bumped into each other, right? We’d be running through the summer lights. Without knowing each other, I’d know there wouldnt be a woe you couldn’t comfort. We’d be slowly lifting summer peaches. Nothing on our minds. It’d be sunset, there would be a glow just gleaming. Off your clothes. And on your thigh. Would be a code that only I could see, and with my eyes. I would read like hieroglyphics a subtle way of life. With a basket above the breeches. I’d view you as a sort of woman that wasn’t up my valley, but sorta just my type. So poignant, yet minds prolific. It was like I hand-picked your stunning features. Not even because you were so buzzing that when you blushed your cheeks were. The perfect plushy plum, that it could bring any man up to his knees. Especially me, you’re, a missing puzzle piece. Sorry to be cliche, but let me word this in a way where it speaks volumes, so to say. My jigsaw was blatant gray. So lame, I felt disgraced. The puzzle pieces were intricate but the story was much the same. And so you came, pigmented me with your brush and all your paint. Filled my puzzle with some color, even if as just as faint. You were Picasso, no Frida Kahlo the way you brush stroked with your butter veins. — well I’m getting off topic. Cause even in another region of physics, you still hold a place of glee in my English. So peaceful. And then I would wonder if, my words would ever ward you. Cause I’m sure as hell I would unveil this innervation towards you. It’s absolute. it’s pure. it’s in his unadulterated form. Unaware, how much of cunning keepsake you’d come to make. They say; whom the gods love die young. You’d probably be the first one to go. Because I’d convince the gods how much you mean to this one hopeful soul. And they would learn to love you whole. But then they wouldn’t, and in the juncture, they’d take a moment to observe this woman. Your perfect alluring humming, when you’re working. Cause they’d see you so happy they’d get jealous of it. Of us, and in a second that loving’ they had would turn into covert overzealous nothings. And then we’d be together, and there wouldn’t be a thing or two to stop it. Cause our endeavors are probably too honest. I love you, darling.