It's a lover type thing.
To dream.
To be disoriented in the core of a storybook daze,
To instantaneously inquire the evident
It's a lover type thing to recklessly manipulate loves raw nuance,
Dissecting it's every aspect,
rummaging throughout its essence, like papers in the journal
you keep beneath  your bed
The one that traps your skeletons, dangling by knotted ropes in the back hall closet.
It's a lover type thing.
To see galaxies beyond the pupils of another,
To study the story tucked into the sea of  bloodshot eyes.
To hunt the unsteady heartbeat of others.
To share a common step with a stranger.
It's a lover type thing,
To love.