Modern Romanticism

I have not left the blue

Of her tears.

I only hold the shape close,

Rectangular in form, and frivolous in its definition

Of fate.

I still deny

The sentiment,

Of what should be

Left behind.

In the moments I catch the raindrops

That leave my eyes,

I see where I splash, with my legs buried

And curled

To my chest,

A lake, or an ocean, of the same sorrows

Fallen from soaked eyelids.

Love left the sentiment

For my needed recollection

Of her face,

And what terror she poses!

What eyes of gloss,

And what cheeks of sheen,

And what lips of gleam.

What a radiance in every detail,

Unlike the pang that stills my throbbing mind.