Modern Romanticism

Sometimes, to love,

I hear the record playing a certain song

To bring tears upon my open palms.

I only want to feel,

So that I will not conceal,

Everything not meant to be the shield

In the vulnerability of what I wield.

I wield the woes,

As I listen to the sounds of crows,

As I listen to your sighs,

Across the ocean

And it comes as screams.

I wish I could love you, again.

I wish I could speak your name,

Without wanting to weep a tear

That is more bitter than my own name.