Modern Romanticism

What will believe

Us to be

The truest sorts of lovers

And the crudest sorts of hoarders?

Our hearts

Seem to be

Too big for our chests.

Where is the lock?

It was meant to stay in place,

But the doors have opened,

And we can see blood.

What will fade

From us?

What will ever desire to fall freely

From us?

From this heart,

Its beats, coming steady

Will fade,

Like time.

We believe ourselves

To bleed

Nectar,

But we bleed

Melted snow.