Adverbial Phrases

She ingests a furrowed fruit and she guffaws for a sudden spooning. She meanders through the present without a tint of progressive adornment. She sees his patent buoyance like it’s honed to her very liking. Riveting. Swallowing. She gapes deep into currency and their mediocre gaiety.

She flickered a filter-tipped fag then she prayed for sedate lungs. She envisioned their forthcoming delights without a tinge of empathic melancholy. She mauled his plaintive qualms like a persistent cough. Eliciting. Invoking. She tranced out into the morrow and their seamless ever-after.

She will savor that solitary second and she will breathe for an infinite affair. She shall expunge the acute yesteryears without a tone of perfect despair. She will endure his passive warmth like tepid baths. Renewing. Reincarnating. She shall bellow out into space and their meant collision.

Through the three tenses. Via her five senses.
This is how she adores him.

Likewise

I love you too.

You make my brain hurl. In my mind, memories of you unfurl.
You make my heart flutter. In my dreams, thoughts of you linger.
You make my breath afloat. In my sleep, visions of you unfold.

This should've been non-parallel. This should've been all plain.
Instead, this further unravels. Instead, this forever remains.

You
are
nonpareil.

And likewise, I love you too.

Deathless, Senseless

Up she goes, hands a-quivering as her words a-throttling, up to the ambiguous, cerulean skies over her head. Photographic memories - shuffling, penetrating into her hollow mind's lunacy fringe. She says, "Hello." Then, ceases out in despair. Yearning.

The verily skies are enamored with a brightened hue of azure. Looking up, she sees hope. Pink petals of transcending against the sunlight, condescending with cheerful fright. Larking up, she feels hope. There's no need to be baffled, there's no time to be crumbled. Aiming for a stick of cigar, she prowls, like a stray feline in  deep thirst. Longing.

Penetrating beyond the stratosphere, she glides. Without a crease of hesitation, she further slides. Heart over matter. Matter over blood. Dusk after dust. Dust after dawn. Interchanging.

Perpetuating.

A Nonspatial Continuum

Hours and minutes in digital are now dead. Dreaming delightfully in bed. Time, without his arms where her head rests in satiation, endures forever. But as her head, finally, slumbers alongside his: time sprints. Each minute, their souls collide against the salty Earth. And every hour turns into a figment of mirth.

Don't stare at her with those piercing orbs. You see, her insides tremble. But in a beautiful beat. Hold her close to your chest, cling onto her torsos, castrate your doubts, carry her heart. But no, don't leer at her with those cursing glare. Connive with her curves. Convey through her hips.

Half a day has now ended. Bullets through their mouths, bended. His arms, but without her resting head, and without satiety. She has slumbered alongside his head, finally. Time endured. Time sprinted. Each and every soul has evacuated into a black hole. Rewind, unwind. Forward, wayward.

SYNCHRONICITY.

Generalizing the Mesmerizing

Beautiful distractions swaying beside her hips. Subsequently, she sways her arms, from side to side, like a damsel in a humming meadow. Her self-loathing is turning into a colourful stream of dreams. She's elusive and her words sting, illusive. She's penetrable and her vision, still and imperturbable.

She dwells in pessimism and in turn, pessimism is what keeps her cool. Prone to erring. Likely to damnation. She writes and writhes in a black hole of infinite episodes, of saturnine plots, of contrasting endings. She bears in her mind a mental photograph of her vivid reverie. Faux mustaches, paper tiaras, and pistol toys - these are a few of her savourite shrills.

Beautiful destructions whipping throughout her insides. Lines of luminous love perpetuating from her hypothalamic parts. Back and forth and even to and fro, it shall always be she and him. Continuum. Ad infinitum. In other words, constantly.

Everything is in random, words of adoration. And aberration. Everything is in motion, pictures of hallucination. With palpitation. Everything has a distraction. Everything might be a destruction.

She writes and then writhes. She sees and then sinks.

Cadaveric Spasms

She is dressed in cerements,

sad and sullen.

Livor mortis.

Death rattles her.

Symptoms of drowning, images of ending.

Her benign thoughts slowly convulse into delusional doldrums.

Her unsung arias perpetually echo amidst a labyrinth of shrieks.

Dreamlike, but deathly.

To die while she's sleeping is such a dandy way to end her worth.

Instead of shedding blood or suturing pus or severing limbs.

Because death, even though it haunts her, can be beautiful.

Death portrays every life story's epilogue.

Death.

It puts an end and, more or less, an ellipsis.

Because death,

like everything that's tainted and thanatoid,

is unfathomable.

Dreamlike

and

deathly.

No, she is not praying for death to succumb to her.

But if she rests in peace even before her dreams are seized,

there is nothing but one question about her,

waiting to be answered.

Ultimately,

what would her

euphemism be?

Algor mortis.