Modern Romanticism

We have no more love

For either of us,

So what is left?

What is left, but the paranoia?

What is left, but the shapes

That spiral about my mind?

I held upon your hand, for your dear life,

We held upon life, for our dear existence.

Without love

For its pangs,

Without love

For its sting,

There is nothing left to hold.

Because, the touch of our skin, was as hot as the sun

On the coldest day.