No one realized she'd kept a book; even

No one realized she'd kept a book; even with the notes, they would not know her fully; would never comprehend the intracasies of her life. The way she remained according to law. The way she insisted upon complete surrender. She'd understood, then, that with clouds in the eyes and lies upon the lips, lovers take the agonising plunge into the non-rational in order to survive; in order unconsciously to be more. All but them whom have actually died; what true Lover did not suffer the agony, the body, a mere approximation of Love? What honest word was ever spoke? What worldly name did not fall short; was not sleepily dreamt upon the lips; the resounding void; painting her again and again into perfect service; while he, impailed upon a dream would not have even seen he missed her when he was with her. There was little gone between him and her; and only words betwixt them and source; an own-measure of resistance; where his lips must form the lie; where she would ready the space; and upon his insistance the descent into mass without which there would be no need of bodies, loving, or solipsistically inclined. She had agreed to be eaten; she had agreed to feed. While alone they could do neither; without the plunge into the manifest, there would be no need of the you or the I.